


Unicorns of Winterfell

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Complete, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-06-03 23:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. Mod AU two-part for the Red Carpet challenge. Some angst. Some spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Red Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> With my grateful thanks to RoseHeart, for her excellent work as beta, and for her kindness.
> 
> And to Mikki, who gave me the idea in the first place.

 

Unicorns of Winterfell

 

**Chapter One - The Red Bitch**

 

She’d run from the underground station, her boots throwing up sheets of dirty water as they thumped through the deeper puddles in her haste to try and gain some time; the thick treads of them, despite their reliability, nonetheless slipping over the shiny, slick cobbles of the roads, threatening to land her on her back a few times. She feels like she’s left a soggy breadcrumb trail of apologies behind her, the occasionally shouted ‘sorry’, thrown back over her shoulder while she dodged her way through the pedestrian-clogged streets only becoming yet more numerous as she forced her way through the vast, gathered crowd to reach the line for security checks.

Brienne’s efforts, however, have proven to be of no use. She finds herself standing in the tipping rain, soaked to the skin, her customarily thick layers of clothing heavy on her shoulders, whilst she wills the pair at the front of the long queue to stop arguing about having their bags searched. She pulls her press pass out from the inside of her jacket, and automatically wipes the plastic against dark green cloth. It just makes it wetter, so she simply lets it hang loose on its lanyard, where it can be clearly seen.

She is busy swiping dripping water away from the end of her nose with her back of her hand, only to find it replaced with yet more, when a familiar voice reaches her. “Tarth!”

Brienne looks across to see a face she regards as friendly, though she would hazard a guess that not many would. Handsome, yes. Friendly, no. She follows a waved hand with some relief, ignoring the scathing looks and derogatory whispers of those left waiting behind. “Dro. Thanks,” she says, as a rope is unhooked, letting her pass through to the inspection area. The former soldier turned security expert, whom she had met nearly a decade ago in a place almost as far away from this as it is possible to be, taps at the surface of the nearest table.

“I have to do this.”

“Not a problem,” Brienne mutters, knowing full well that the increased threat levels gripping the city mean that he might even have to ask her to empty her pockets.

As she pulls the shoulder strap of her bag over her head, Drogo leans in. “The Red Bitch is holding court in the pit,” he warns, just loud enough so that he can be heard, though his blunt words are thick with an understandable anger.

Brienne drops the padded bag onto the table and sighs wearily. “Is he? Just when my day was sucking enough.”

A dark eyebrow arches. “Tarly?” As ever with Dro, he needn’t say more than a name to telegraph his ground-shaking sense of scorn.

“Mmm-hmm,” Brienne confirms, casting her gaze out over a sea of heads at the lights and glamour of the red carpet itself. “Who've I missed? Anybody I’d manage to recognize?”

“Baratheon. Redwyne,” Drogo tells her, his frankly cursory rummage through her equipment interrupted by his looking back up at her with a rare, if brief, smile. “The missus,” he quietly adds.

Brienne smiles back, in happiness for him, but also undeniably at his awkward adoption of the local phrase as well; they may not be in contact very often these days, but this is the second time she’s heard him use it. “How much longer have you got before Cohollo takes over?” She can’t imagine him settling into a life of cocktails and pool-side parties, but so it is to be.

“Three weeks," he tells her, and then offers a characteristically abrupt snippet of very useful information. "Head to the Rush, later.”

"Thank you," Brienne says, grateful that her night's work has just been shortened by some margin, though she can't resist asking one more question. “Has Daeny optioned the script yet?” she softly teases. Even _she_ has heard the rumours that the relationship between the global megastar and her former bodyguard has been developed into a tale for the big screen, though she has hardly endeavoured to cover herself in investigative glory since she was assigned to rot on the entertainment desk.

Given how doggedly he and Daenerys have been stalked by some of Brienne’s fellow ‘journalists’, not to mention some of the underhanded methods employed by them, Drogo’s dryly vague reply is perfectly reasonable. “Who could play _me_?”

“True.”

But when he zips up her bag, one small tidbit comes, laden with unspoken trust, for he knows Brienne has zero interest in reporting details of his life, regardless of whom he happens to be sharing it with. If she has never lied about her acquaintance with the pair to her editor, she isn't exactly going to hurry to volunteer the information either. "The screenplay involves a _singer_."

They grimace at each other comically for moment; Brienne considering her memories of the slightly tipsy movie star she certainly _hadn't_ expected to encounter, belting out a close to criminally bad version of a show tune when she visited her old friend last year. Both Brienne and Drogo can sing, though neither of them choose to prove it often. On the other hand, Daenerys Targaryen may indeed have been voted the most beautiful woman in the world for the last three years, but she simply can't hold a tune in a bucket, no matter how much she's being paid for her efforts. She seems to do well for herself without that particular skill, Brienne thinks, and has turned out to be pleasant enough company, on the few occasions they've met.

The unmistakable sound of hail beginning to patter against the heavy, if elaborately lined, tarps above them draws Brienne's attention back to those still standing in line to pass through security. "Thanks for letting me skip the wait," she says, wincing as she watches coats being drawn more tightly around bodies and people starting to huddle in small groups. "I mean it."

Drogo nods and points to the rear of the mass of those already in place, struggling to catch a glimpse of their favourites. "Round to the left," he tells her, clearly looking to get more guests under cover as quickly as he can. Brienne thanks him and picks up her bag, but before she leaves for pit, he stops her. "Brienne. If you hit him, _none_ of my people will see it."

"Don't tempt me," she smiles, waving as she moves off.

Brienne finds that the narrow path around the back of the ticketed fan sections is quite free of further obstructions, but she can't help but slow her feet as she approaches the pap pit. At this end of the carpet, there is only a roof above, the need for increased protection after the attacks on the Great Sept two days ago seeing nothing behind her but three concentric rings of iron fencing, heavily manned by armed police, presumably to allow them sniper coverage from the buildings opposite. But the rain is coming in through the open wire links, forcing the members of the traditional press to pack in more tightly than they normally would, within their assigned area. As a result, there's only one space left for Brienne to grab some viable shots. And she doesn't like it. She pauses, taking a deep breath before she traipses over and drops her bag carefully into place on the single dry spot of pavement left behind the vast panoply of unnecessary equipment boxes that are only there to serve as a sort of redoubt, defending the territory of the least charming member of Westeros' press.

All hopes of her arrival going unnoticed, what with the money being in the opposite direction, prove fruitless, however. Not a single red hair so much as moves on his head, but she is greeted in just the same way as she always is. "If it isn’t the beast! What brings _you_ down here to mix with us 'low lives'?"

Brienne crouches and opens her bag. "Believe me, Ron, I don’t want to be here."

"I don’t think you’ll find any orphans here. Isn’t that more your style these days? S’what I heard."

She can hear the sneer in his voice, though he doesn't deign to even glance at her, his camera trained on an obviously and unwisely unchaperoned group wandering past, all of them freely talking about how 'fucking boring' they find this sort of event and the people at them; perhaps unaware that they're passing by some of the most venal journalists in the world.

"I’m just trying to work," Brienne mutters, suddenly aware that she _isn't_ being heard. Some of her supposed peers are already talking into their phones at a mile a minute. She has no idea what 'The Howling in the Eyrie' is, even if it isn't a huge leap to know that some of its more publicly inexperienced cast members will be waking up to some thoroughly unwelcome headlines in the morning.

Brienne wipes her hands as dry as she can on a rag she keeps in a pocket of the bag, grabs her camera and zoom lens, clicking the latter into place as she rises; only to frown down at the jumble of boxes in front of her. She has no wish to call any more attention to herself, so she ends up forcing one foot into the gap between two of them, slowly edging her way forward a little. In the end, it isn't quite far enough. "Ron, I don’t suppose you could make some space –"

"Not a fucking chance!" he laughs with a cruel edge, his own camera clicking unrelentingly. "You know the rules, Tarth. You want the best shot, you get here first." Then he finally looks her way, though blessedly sparing her anything other than the swiftest kind of scathing glare; one that might be given to the sole of a shit-covered shoe. "You shouldn’t have a problem getting a clear shot from back there, anyway," he adds dismissively, turning back to his work.

"Thanks for nothing," Brienne grinds out through her teeth.

"Soldier-chasing _freak."_   It's said loudly, but not for her ears, and more for the benefit of what Dro rightly described as Ron's 'court'. In the long years of Brienne's absence, there can be no doubt who has connived their way up to become the king of the celebrity snappers. Brienne lets a few of the more choice names she's wished she could bring herself to call him, since the very first time they met, roll through her head as laughter rises and abates around her. Soon enough, the barb is forgotten by all but her, and Brienne lifts her camera. If she comes away from this empty-handed, Tarly will have her hide.

So she throws herself into her current assignment, taking pictures not only of the few notables she is aware of, but pretty much everyone strolling up and down the red carpet. It’s undeniable that she has lost heart in her work since her move back to the very area of news coverage she'd started in. Brienne has almost entirely lost touch with the world of entertainment in the years she was elsewhere and, though she'd once devoted her spare time researching all the latest cultural trends, it is the most she can make herself do now to ensure she finds out everything about each job when it comes in. It feels like she is being lax and she hates it, but she can't seem to help herself. There's no doubt that Tarly knows it too, and that it is precisely why he'd sent her here tonight, after the arrivals had already begun.

"Wow, you’re really going to catch a front page with that candid shot of an usher falling on his arse," Ron snipes just a couple of minutes later, despite the fact that he had taken one of the unfortunate man too, swift movement being too much of a draw to any press photographer worth their salt.

"Fuck you, Connington," Brienne hisses out, hoping the moment that it emerges that it is quiet enough to go unheard. She has no such luck.

"As if," Ron snarls back, looking at her once more as if he had been offered something offensively inedible. "Do you know who any of these people are, Tarth? No? Dates still a bit thin on the ground for you, are they?" He is laughing uproariously as he turns back to the carpet. "When _was_ the last time you were in a cinema?" He pauses, his tone becoming far more upbeat, even overtly gushing, when an established A-lister arrives to pose. "Hold on, everyone, Sand’s in the house!"

Brienne wonders quite why Ronnet Connington feels the need to tell everyone something they can see, but simply dismisses it as yet another one of his shows of ‘power’ while she focuses on Ellaria Sand. Though Brienne is no great judge of these things, she has always liked the southron actor and thinks she looks stunning as she poses in the well-practised fashion of a veteran of the movie circuit. Brienne takes a few shots, no more than the five or so needed to capture the sheer star power of the Diamond of Dorne, whose striking combination of dignity and eroticism flows from her, seemingly reflected in the multitude of rippling strings of beads that drip and shimmer on her dress.

Then Brienne shifts her balance slightly, trying to use her height to her advantage and take some long-shots of various actors further back on the carpet as they interact with their fans. Yet she doesn’t get a chance, the unmistakable sound of aluminium clanking as her hip hits it seeing her twist to steady a ladder she has inadvertently knocked. She looks up to find a young man perched there, as wet behind the ears as she once was, his arms clamped tight to the sides of the frame.

“Sorry.”

‘It’s okay,” he says, obviously trying not to appear to be overwhelmed by the whole atmosphere, let alone being nearly tipped from his place. “Is it always like this?”

Brienne remembers when she was that green. “Always, I’m afraid.”

“If you keep the ladder steady, it might keep you steady too,” he suggests brightly. He is just too wrong for this job.

“I’ll give it a try,” Brienne smiles, turning back to her task, even if, within a few seconds, it is clear that instead of maintaining her grip on wet aluminium, it’s easier to stand at an awkward angle so she can work with both of her hands.

Beyond the milling great and good on the long carpet, yet another dark limousine pulls in, and Brienne gets a single shot of its lone occupant as he steps out and pulls himself upright, looking tired and perhaps even unhappy, though nonetheless picture perfect. She glances down at her screen uncertainly, knowing full well that these events are the only ones where Jaime Lannister routinely keeps the pricklier aspects of his character in check. By the time she glances back up again, the moment is gone and a megawatt smile is fused to his features as he waves at the gathered crowds and begins his promenade in front of the fan zone.

Ellaria Sand moves off into the white, elegantly pillared theatre and Brienne grits her teeth when the obsequious tones of the men grouped around her are inevitably shed. She feels herself tense when the cloying questions about the star’s family drop like a stone into an abyss of lewd suggestions, each worse than the last. The ‘jocularity’ of the obscenities only emphasises how progress toward equality has yet to have an impact on this group of dinosaurs.

Brienne bites the inside of her cheek, aware from bitter personal experience how futile any remonstrance would be. She ignores what is going on around her, hating every moment of it, and wishing that today would just _stop._

She concentrates on her work, getting together a good run of pictures with various stars posing for selfies with fans or signing autographs. She even manages to capture the moment when one of the younger members of the Tyrell dynasty just about catches a fan-knitted figure of her character in the series ‘West Reach Sunsets’, to the great delight of both.

The pace of things picks up markedly over the next few minutes, with curtain up approaching. The turnover of expensively dressed names posing in front of the pit becomes more rapid. Brienne is thankful that this alone serves to hush the lack of any sort of modern sensibilities on offer from her ‘colleagues’ there. It makes them easier to ignore, though she can feel the rumbles of protest rising about her, as the passage of time sees the possibility of one particular actor walking straight on by increasing.

“Why the hells is he wasting this much time with his idiot fans?”

Brienne stares back along the carpet to see Jaime Lannister leaning in to a group of enthusiastic young men, currently the subject of no less than six unsteadily held out phones. He seems to be taking it all in his stride, making his way from person to person with no great haste, but a great deal of charm, which is wholly contrary to his long-held reputation as a hellraiser. If he could be thought to be metaphorically dragging his feet a touch, a young, besuited assistant at his side busies him along, getting him to the picture spot in time. Again, it is little more than the barest flicker on the film star’s face, but Brienne is sure there is a beat of revulsion in him as he pauses before stepping onto the white circle of carpet which serves as a focal point for the gathered press.

“Sister-fucker,” Brienne hears Ron quietly laugh with his ‘friends’, even if it done with notably more caution than had been apparent with Ellaria Sand. Other slights fly too, but it is more of an unsettling hum that the sickening wave of misogyny that had flooded out earlier.

But then Ronnet Connington turns to her, his grin vicious as he snarls out, “Bet you wouldn’t have minded being taken hostage by him, beast. He’s worn a lot of uniforms in his films. Your kind of thing.”

The last thing Brienne sees, as the Red Bitch's words bite, is Jaime Lannister taking an abrupt step forward from the white round of carpet, his face etched with something akin to concern.

But then Brienne's knees feel like they have been kicked out from underneath her, though she knows she is still standing, and she is transported to another time. There is a moment of pitch darkness, one that isn't real, all she can feel the tightness of thick cable ties digging into wrists and ankles that are no longer bound together. Then the movement of cloth over her face, sweeping upwards until she is blinded by a light that takes long seconds to settle into the sight of a single sunbeam, lancing in from a tiny window, set high up in a wall sparsely covered in mould and the occasional flakes of old paint.

The light is stunning now, as it was then, a thick line of the ordinary life still going on outside. A city, as she would come to think of it, peopled by countless motes of dust.

"Would you like a private interview for…whatever questionable rag it is you work for?"

In truth, a part of her can both see and hear Jaime Lannister call out, but Brienne is a degree away from herself, his decidedly derogatory tone not quite enough to bring her back, though that happens soon enough. The whole pit falls entirely silent around her, an event so rare that Brienne has never, ever known it to happen before. Even as her blood thunders in her ears, the sudden clenching in her stomach eases while her mind judders back into its proper place; the juxtaposition of that short flash of her own past and this present too surreal to have her stay there, or indeed to note who the most famous man in the world had actually addressed in the first place. 

For a moment, she would swear he'd been looking at her, but Brienne dismisses the idea as fanciful at best, brought on by her own, briefly thrown, train of thought. It's not an option she would welcome, in any case. If Jaime Lannister does all the right things at premieres and award ceremonies, his participation in everything else related to publicity is legendarily capricious. If he turns up at all to press junkets, his levels of cooperation can range from the coolly professional, yet frankly uninformative at best, to the hellishly closed-mouthed, even sometimes verging on the harshly disparaging, on a bad day. 'Lannister Roulette', they call it.

As for the traditional press, the actor has had less than zero time to give it since the death of his sister, though he could hardly have been described as forthcoming beforehand.

"An interview? When?" Ron shouts out, ever the opportunist. It breaks the silence, and suddenly everyone is convinced the highly unusual offer was meant for _them._ Times and dates ring out around her in a cacophony. Brienne would swear she glimpses a glimmer of intense amusement on the movie star's face, but it is quickly schooled into the more familiar look of cool arrogance that has stared out from upwards of sixty film posters over the years.

Jaime Lannister walks...no, Brienne thinks, _stalks_ to within a foot of the barrier between himself and his long-held foes, apparently ignoring the huge number of large lenses swinging his way as he does so. Brienne doesn't bother, for she doesn't believe a close-up of his pores would be remotely usable, and simply watches as Ron 'The Red Bitch' Connington gets a taste of his own medicine.

Unlike many of the stars of stage and screen, Lannister is physically much larger than his screen presence often suggests, his lean strength belying his sheer size. He is almost as tall as Brienne is, though she is built on a yet larger scale. And he uses his height to its fullest now, looming over Connington more than impressively, pinning the senior member of the pap pack with a look so extraordinarily damning that it makes every single one of Ron’s taunts, since she was fresh out of college, seem like whispers on the wind.

It's an unspoken masterclass in cutting another human being down to size and if Brienne has never had any real opinions on Jaime Lannister one way or the other, she is tempted, as Ron merely gapes up at him, driven to muteness for the length of an indrawn breath, to consider this not just the actor's greatest skill, but one she could grow to like.

That sentiment doesn't last, though.

Ron seems to shudder back into life and asks brusquely about ‘his’ interview. "No," the actor finally drawls out. "Not you, Red. You see, I _really_ don’t like utter dickheads. I mean the only one of you bastards to have lost their tongue.” His gaze swings around like a powerful searchlight, landing on Brienne herself. “The woman.” For a moment, she is captivated by the way he looks at her, but then his head tilts and he grimaces at her as if to say ‘if that’s what you are?’ “I’ll give _you_ an interview. If you’re interested.”

“No.”

“So you _can_ speak?” Jaime Lannister smiles, though it is laced with both amusement and disdain. “Are you sure?”

Brienne stands her ground, paying the mutters of the word ‘idiot’ rising in her vicinity no heed, unwilling to cave. It’s been a long day and she’s reaching the end of her tether. She's not even sure he's serious about the offer anyway. She stares at Jaime Lannister flatly and swipes stubbornly at her long fringe where it is stuck, in flat tangles, against her scar-ridged cheek. “Not interested.”

His head falls back. And he laughs. It is almost shockingly stripped of pretence, lacking anything other than sheer joy at her blunt refusal. Then he looks at her once more. “Fair enough,” he says, and winks. “Do enjoy the rain back there, won’t you?” He moves smoothly off, without pause, suddenly seeming to be enjoying himself thoroughly as his assistant directs him towards the ranks of those who work in television.

Brienne, for her part, feels slightly stunned for a few seconds, unsure if the exchange had happened at all. She doesn’t get the opportunity to reply to those few paps who confirm it by asking her why she would be so stupid as to turn down such a gold-plated payday, because her phone starts to ring. She pulls it out of her bag and stares down at the screen, letting a soft moan out as she sees the name there. It’s Tarly.

Brienne wonders just how bad her evening is going to get as she takes the call. “Tarth.”

“Did you just turn down an interview with Jaime fucking Lannister?”

The words come so swiftly and angrily that Brienne almost jumps in her boots. She looks around her in confusion, concerned he might actually be there, monitoring her work. “How did you –?”

“I’m watching the live coverage now and let’s not forget, I started in the pap pack too. So I can..?”

"Lipread," she quietly fills in the gap Tarly deliberately leaves hanging.

"That’s right, Tarth. Now tell me I read that ugly mouth of yours wrong."

“You didn’t,” she admits, knocking the knuckles of the hand she is using to hold her camera against her forehead in frustration.

_“Get him back!”_

“He’s gone!” Brienne says, rising unsteadily onto the tips of her toes. She squints into the harsh light flooding the live broadcasting area. "He’s being interviewed for the TV now."

"I can see that from _here_.” Randyll Tarly lets loose a string of colourful phrases, all of which sum up his opinion of Brienne as worthless, before speaking to her directly again. “Let’s just put it this way, shall we, Tarth? You do whatever you have to, to get that interview. Charge the barriers. Get naked, for all the good that’ll do anybody’s eyesight. Get arrested. I don’t _care._ If you don’t get me that interview, that’s it for you here. Anywhere. I’ll see you shipped back to your poor bloody father, without a hope in the seven hells of finding any decent work, ever again. Frankly, I should’ve done it ages ago.” There is a short break in the tirade, and Brienne struggles to think what to say, not even dragging a lone word from her head before Tarly adds, “Well? What are you _waiting_ for?"

Brienne simply hits the red button and stows her phone away again, looking around her to see how she can get Jaime Lannister’s attention. In the end, there is only one way she can think of, so she glances upwards. “Hey, kid.”

A mop of wet brown hair shifts into view. “Pod.”

“Pod. Do you mind if I use your ladder for a minute?”

“Course not,” he grins, clambering down to the pavement.

“You're too good for this place, do you know that?” Brienne smiles as she takes his place, her boots thudding loudly on the rungs.

Pod steadies the ladder and shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, obviously uncomfortable as the others in the pit realize what she is doing, and begin to laugh.

Brienne simply looks over towards the television area. “Lannister?”’ she calls out.

From up here, she can see Jaime Lannister clearly as he is asked a question, virtually shining under the lights. He doesn’t seem to hear her over the shouting of fans and other journalists alike, much to the amusement of her colleagues. Their rising taunts make her grind her teeth, so she takes another step up the ladder. Pod grips the swaying metal more tightly.

 _“Lannister!”_   Perhaps it is the fact that her second shout, closer to a bellow, sounds so much more irritated than anybody else’s, but Lannister notices. Although he is mid-interview, he looks in her direction and grins widely for a split-second, before turning back to the perfectly presented young woman currently quizzing him on auditions, as far as Brienne can tell. Still talking entirely professionally, even charmingly, he lifts his hand briefly to acknowledge her, before finishing up the TV spot with some inane talk about his clothes. Brienne isn’t quite sure what to do, so she just waits where she is, pleased that at least her catching his attention has cooled the humour being spread at her expense within the pit.

In between interviews, she sees Lannister turn to his assistant and point in her direction. The bespectacled young man scurries over, his youth only fully apparent when he stands directly in front of the barriers. He is far from short, though his shoulders are narrow, and his features have yet to take on the squarer angles of adulthood. He stares up at her uncertainly. “Er…tall lady? If you could make your way down to the end, you can go in for a few minutes?”

“Thanks. Will do,” she tells him, clomping her way back down to the ground. Pod offers to look after her things and she ruffles his hair. “’Like I said, too good,” she mutters to him, grateful for the offer, as there is no way she’d be permitted to take her camera inside.

She makes her way around the back of the pens holding the television crowd and waits at the end, under the watchful eye of one of Dro’s security guards, until the youngster comes to let her through. He lifts the thick red rope, only to shrug shyly when Brienne just steps over it. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Jos, Jaime’s personal assistant.”

“Good to meet you, Jos. I’m Brienne, from the Herald.”

“The Herald, huh?” He looks at her, confused.

“Don’t worry. I don’t get it either,” Brienne smiles, content enough to follow Jos, a short wave from him enough to see them both granted entry into the gloriously grandiose entrance hall.

Jos asks her to wait by an ornately carved interior pillar, with veins running through the marble the colour of blood. “I’ll go and drag him away from the cameras,” he says, before scooting back outside again.

Only then does Brienne look around her, to see that she’s probably never been quite so out of place in her entire life as she is right now. She is standing there, nearly six and a half feet of completely sodden mess, the jacket and trousers that she brought back with her from various periods of being embedded in Essos virtually stuck to her with sheer weight of water alone. She feels like an absolute hobo, an ugly interloper in a world not meant for her. The gorgeous designer gowns swirling around give the impression that she has stumbled into an exotic butterfly house. And she knows she is being looked at, far more than she is looking; yet she pays it no mind. She is the outsider here and, even if she can hear stifled giggles or the passing comment or two, it is as nothing, compared to the perils of the pit.

"Changed your mind, did you?"

The wryly posed question sees Brienne shift her attention from some golden cherubs in flight, twisted around a thick balustrade, to the man of the moment. And, as he comes to a halt, just in front of her, she can see what she has never bothered to when she had a camera in her hands. It is only now that the automatic need to judge light, distance, and angles is gone that she actually notices that Jaime Lannister is golden too. But if her breath catches for a moment as she finally understands that he is _staggeringly_ beautiful, she lets it go. She knows that such things carry no real weight and if she is a freak, he is no less so, in his own, more fortunate, way. She has a job to do, however much it mightn't be to her taste. "Let’s just say it was changed for me."

He accepts her lack of eagerness with a sly grin. "Excellent. There’s nothing I like more than a reluctant journalist to play with. They're so _rare."_

Brienne tries not to sigh, and ends up staring abjectly down at her boots instead. "Great."

"What rampant enthusiasm," he says with humour. "Are you sure you want to interview me?"

She looks up at him again, answering blandly, "I don’t really have a choice. When are you free?"

"Tomorrow. And then in about two months."

"It’ll have to be in the morning then." If Jaime Lannister is at all perturbed that a mere journalist will not move heavens and earth to bend to _his_ timetable, it is only shown by the merest flicker of an eyebrow, a question that need not be heard to be received. Brienne wastes a second or two wondering how somebody can contrive to have a scar like the one that rises from that eyebrow, so perfectly angled as to accentuate his already ridiculous good looks, before she frowns at the fate that tomorrow will bring to her. "I’m supposed to be flying out to cover the premiere of ‘Unicorns of Winterfell’ tomorrow evening."

Lannister lets out a low, descending whistle that morphs into a low chuckle whilst he stares at her face. "You don’t seem like the fairytale castles and songs about togetherness for the under-fives kind." His gaze wanders up and down over her decidedly haphazard form. "I’m not sure what gives me that impression, though," he says, when his eyes meet hers again. "Hard to say."

"This was a last minute assignment," she bluntly tells him.

While her mood is fairly sour, Lannister's is not. "On dress down day, I’m guessing. Who _are_ you wearing, by the way?"

"Wet remnants of various battlefields."

He shakes his head slowly at her matter-of-fact description. "Never heard of them, but they do know how to make a statement." His gaze drops back to her jacket, turning overly quizzical. "Of sorts." A harsh buzzer cuts through the air, and Brienne flinches, though Lannister has the good grace not to call her on it. Instead, he drops all affectation, or so it appears, and simply cants his head towards the central staircase. "Look, I have to go in. Do you have a card?"

Brienne fiddles with her breast pocket and reaches in, only for her fingers to re-emerge holding what can only be described as a sodden clump of what was once a paper product. And she can't help herself. She sighs. It feels like almost everything that could go wrong today has done it, with aplomb.

"Tell me you at least have a working pen?"

Brienne pulls the first of them from within another pocket and uncaps it with her teeth, scribbling on the back of her hand. Nothing happens, so she ditches it and goes with the next one, though it is isn't until she tries the third that a healthy black line appears over her freckles. In the meantime, Lannister has undone the cufflinks on his left wrist, shoving both his shirt and jacket sleeve back as far as he can.

A wrist and a pen are held out, but Brienne pauses. She doesn't want to get ink on his clothes, which she would guess cost more than a few months of her wages, even if he appears to regard her hesitancy as yet another reason for cheer. A very famous hand starts to flip-flop around in front of her. "We could stand here for the duration, or you could write down your number," he says, his eyes sparkling. "Just an idea." Brienne grabs his dramatically flailing arm at the first attempt and turns it in her grip so she can write it on the inside of his wrist.

"Are you finished for the night?" Lannister asks her, whilst she scrawls out dark numerals.

"No," she replies, aware that she sounds as utterly despondent as he is not. "I’m supposed to head off to cover the after-parties," she adds, recapping her pen and dropping it back into her pocket. Once that is done, she notices that she is still holding a warm, remarkably strong forearm and lets it go very quickly.

He, perhaps surprisingly, says nothing about that, simply pulling his sleeves back into place and smoothly reattaching his cufflinks. Then he looks back at her. "Would I be right in thinking that your boss loathes you?"

"He truly does," Brienne confirms with the bleakest of small smiles. That would be impossible for her to deny, and there would be no point in her even trying.

Lannister steps in until they are almost nose-to-nose. "Want to know a secret? Off the record."

For the first time this evening, Brienne feels the tingle of genuine curiosity and nods. "Off the record."

"I completely loathe all of this too," he says, the flatness of his tone in blatant opposition to the full-on movie star smile that he suddenly lets loose. The effect of it at this short distance is stunning. It feels strangely like he must be draining the city's power grid for a beat, but then he pushes it further and it takes on the manic edge of somebody who just wants _out_.

"Oh," Brienne breathes, finally smiling at him for real. "I thought you looked tired when you arrived."

"I did?" he says, appearing momentarily disappointed at a crack in his facade having been noticed. "I must be slipping." A discreet cough from a nearby usher draws their attention to the fresh emptiness of the space around them. She isn't sure either of them had noticed everybody else going in. "Tedious duty calls," Jaime Lannister says and moves away, though he stops and turns after just a pace or two. "I’ll contact you later, with a time and place?"

"Fine."

He leaves then, at the usher's side, and Brienne watches him bound gracefully up the stairs, in the manner of one who gets to climb them too often at award ceremonies, considering his filmography. Then he disappears behind thick velvet curtains, into another world, and Brienne is left alone. She lets out a long breath, puffing out her cheeks, and goes back outside.

The television pit remains full, with a number of reporters continuing to broadcast live with 'important' opinions on various outfits. Yet when Brienne makes it around to the pap pit, it isn't a surprise to find it already cleared out. The frantic annual run for the Red Keep has begun and only young Pod is left, standing forlornly next to his ladder. "Thanks for doing that, Pod. You didn’t have to."

"I didn’t mind," he says, handing her bag over. He's even packed it for her, if she isn't mistaken. "If we hurry, we could still get a good place up at the Keep," he offers eagerly, closing his ladder with a metallic clunk.

Brienne knows only too well what the chances of _that_ are. "Pod, what if I told you that I was heading down to the Rush Club instead?"

He stares at her blankly. "But...but...isn't that the after-party for independent film-makers?"

"Yes, it is." Brienne can't bear to think of him braving the frankly brutal atmosphere that will soon become evident up on Aegon's Hill; the drive to capture any minor, drunken indiscretion for posterity inevitably making the pre-show pit seem tame by comparison. She smiles down at Pod, speaking quietly enough so that only they will hear. "But I happen to know of one A-lister who'll be showing up there tonight. And where she goes, others follow. What do you think of getting a close-up of Daenerys Targaryen? You might even get a short interview, if you're lucky." It is, in fact, more than likely, if she vouches for him, but Brienne has long since given up making promises.

"Really?"

He looks so overjoyed at the concept that Brienne wonders if she ever _was_ that green. She suspects not. "Really, Pod," she tells him, shrugging her shoulder strap into place. "That's where I'm going, anyway." She plucks the cool metal frame from his hands and grips it in the middle for balance, letting it fall easily to her side. "It'll be quieter and if you go there too, I don't think you'll need to use this." She takes a few steps, carrying Pod's ladder with her, and then glances back at him. "Want to tag along?"

 


	2. The Red Mist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is ever true, my thanks must go to RoseHeart, who is a wonderfully patient beta. My thanks to Nurdles too, who has been very supportive throughout, and to Mikki, who freely gave me this idea to begin with.
> 
> This is for you, Coralee. Sorry it's late. :)
> 
> Please note: SOME DARK THEMES (non-explicit). Also, it's a bit long, so take a pew.

**The Red Mist**

 

Having had barely two hours of sleep, Brienne is feeling completely out of place once more, even though, thus far, she’s only made it up to the hallway on the thirty-fifth floor of the Five Kings Hotel. Not content with her simply wiring in copies of her photos, Randyll Tarly had called her back into the Herald in the early hours, in order to fully berate her for passing on the interview with Jaime Lannister. No matter how many times she’d tried to say that it was still going ahead, that she’d managed to pull it back, her editor had grabbed the opportunity to take her to task with an excess of vim, before going on to blame her personally for his ‘having’ to remain at the offices overnight to keep her in line.

By the time she arrived home, she’d been capable of doing little else but peeling her clothes off and falling into bed, though she took a few seconds to drape her rain-soaked jacket over the ancient metal radiator beside it. It might rattle and clank as if alive on occasion, but it does throw out a good amount of heat.

Still, if her clothes are clean now, albeit identical to most of the others she owns, she can’t help but shrug uncomfortably within the confines of her jacket, the sleeves of which remain quite damp.

A maid passes by with the most scrupulously tidy cleaning cart that Brienne has ever seen, which glides silently over the thickly plush carpet. “Can I help you?” she asks politely, though with the worried tones of someone wondering what in the hells a person like Brienne is doing in a place like this.

Brienne isn’t entirely sure herself, and takes no offence, simply smiling in return. “I have an appointment to interview Jaime Lannister. In the –“’

“Golden Knight-errant suite? Head to the end and then bear right. You’ll find it just at the end of that hallway.”

“Thank you,” Brienne says, moving off, past a few doors that also have nameplates instead of numbers. She turns and walks on, finally drawing up to the right one, and raises her hand to knock, but then stops, wondering what version of the world's most famous man will greet her this morning. Tarly had been close to gleeful as he told her he expected nothing from this meeting and, for once, it wasn't only because of his views of her; if she had never spoken to Jaime Lannister before last night, her editor has taken at least half a dozen runs at the star over the years, only to come away empty-handed every single time. She's not quite sure if her hoping for the wordlessly disdainful embodiment of the action star is wise for her current career prospects, but it would hasten proceedings. She has yet to pack for her trip to Winterfell. "I'll never know if I don't knock," she whispers to herself and does so.

For a few seconds, nothing happens and she is starting to consider the wisdom of knocking again when she hears a shout. "Hold on!"

So she does, only a few seconds more of waiting required to see the door open. She blinks at coming face to face…with a tall figure obscured by a huge, luxurious bath-towel. A muffled voice emerges from underneath it. “You’re early, Brienne.”

She wonders how Jaime Lannister even knows her name, but brushes the thought aside as she remembers her pass from the night before, as well as her brief conversation with Jos. She has no doubt that he talks to his own personal assistant, on occasion, however rarely he does with those in her line of work. "It’s rude to be late,” she tells him.

A hand rises, tugging at the thick cotton, which slides forward and drops until caught in front of a firm chin, revealing a wry smirk. “You’re not exactly singing to the same choir here,” he says, slightly roughly, “so let’s agree to disagree on that one, shall we? Come on in.” He turns to lead her into the suite and only then does Brienne see that, apart from some low-slung, grey jogging bottoms, the towel appears to be all that Lannister is wearing. She is frozen in place for a moment as she watches a perfectly formed back move away, muscles rippling under smooth skin as he breathes heavily, but then she shakes the odd feeling of unreality away and lopes in after him.

The tiny entrance hall opens out into a spacious living area, all remarkably expensive minimalism, a whole wall of glass looking out over King's Landing, a living artwork in and of itself. She pauses at the threshold, whilst the actor pads silently over to a treadmill placed next to the opposite wall. It's still running, the belt hissing quietly, and he pokes a button to turn it off, only to hit it more firmly when it appears to disagree about his choice.

Then he frowns down at the display and shrugs indifferently. He walks over to the long sofa in front of the window that faces into the room, wiping at the sheen of sweat on his body as he goes, bringing his towel-ruffled hair into a sleek sort of submission when he comes to a stop with a single swipe of his fingers. Then, without any further ado, he flings his towel away and himself onto the dark brown leather, stretching out on his back and folding his hands across his stomach. "Photos first, then?" he says to the ceiling.

Brienne simply can't reply. He looks like he's sunbathing on a glorious and languorously sinful sort of summer afternoon, not posing for a member of the much-loathed press in a hotel room, on a day when the skies outside are a flat, steel grey. She can't even seem to _think_. If it had only ever occurred to her last night, when he was tailored to within an inch of his life, that Jaime Lannister is as beautiful as the more rabid sections of his fanbase would have everyone believe, he looks even better now, the movement of his ribs slowing as the effects of his exercise wear off, relaxation, whether real or contrived, settling in.

Her mind begins to kick back into gear. Brienne reminds herself that none of that means anything, that she is here to pull what little information she can from a man whose temperament has driven entertainment journalists far more experienced than she is to drink. Still, quite bizarrely, she finds herself musing on whether he has always run in bare feet, or is following the latest trend for it, when green eyes dart in her direction. "What?" Jaime Lannister asks.

At last, Brienne is jarred into movement, shoving away her sensation of being an aurochs, too big and ungainly to be in his presence. He is just a man, after all, and one with an infamous history too. She makes her way over to the chair opposite her unexpected interviewee and drops her bag softly onto the low table in between them, leaning over to unzip it with three efficient tugs. "Aren’t you going to put on some kind of," she struggles, thinking of how to put it politely, "shirt? For the photos?"

As her fingertips brush the casing of her beloved camera, she hears a single blast of bored laughter as it slices through the air. "Oh, please, you know as well as I do that this is a clothing optional gig."

She looks up sharply. "A what?"

Lannister is staring up at the ceiling again. "I mean that my putting a shirt on will only serve to drop the possible benefits of my interview to the circulation of your rag." His gaze meanders slowly back towards her. "Which one _is_ it, by the way?"

"The Herald."

"Hmm." Again his attention wanders upwards and Brienne starts to set up her equipment. "You don’t seem like the sort that generally brings the factual news hungry public such glorious headlines as ‘Booty Bus Bundle by the Blackwater’ and ‘Alien Baby Docs Living on the Moon’."

"I’m _not,"_ she bluntly tells him as she decides that any filtering can be added digitally later on. She closes an internal pocket of the bag rather too firmly, the catching of hooks on loops sounding out as a ludicrously loud epilogue to that decidedly unfriendly offering.

"Oh, Brienne, why so glum?" Lannister asks too lightly. "The latter piece gave us real insight into the state of the health service, at the least. I thought it good to know that any visiting alien babies qualify for medical treatment. Best to be giving to the glob-monsters of tomorrow, lest they come back and vengefully destroy us instead, later on."

"I thought the doctors were the aliens," she offers distractedly while she clicks an additional memory card into place.

"Even better. If they’re going to come to call, best they be useful whilst they’re about it. The ungrateful bastards. Coming here, saving our babies...," his voice trails off for a second, only to return with an edge of the dismissive impatience Brienne has been expecting since before she arrived. "Bloody hells, just how many attachments does one camera need?"

Brienne checks the camera settings and gets tiredly up to her feet, only to push at the table with the side of her leg. It's surprisingly hefty so she bends down and shoves it off to one side, out of shot. When she turns back, Lannister's head is lifted slightly and he's watching her curiously. "I’m ready," she says. "Are you?"

"Sure." He taps his fingers on his stomach then and shakes his head slightly before letting it thump back to the leather beneath him. Again, his focus moves off. It seems to Brienne that he has shut himself away, though he is all too present. It makes no difference, she thinks. Even if he chooses to disengage, he obviously looks well enough, and there is an interesting balance of repose and tension in him that it might be a challenge to capture.

So she steps to the side of the chair and crouches, taking her first few shots. In spite of the dull weather, the size of the window serves well to bring in a lot of light and the contrast is good. Then she stands, purposely dropping Lannister to the very bottom of the frame, trying to encompass the city and the distant Red Keep in the background. Even without the camera, it looks like thin tracing paper is being held up over it. There is less clarity in the images she takes, but the shape of the Keep remains unmistakable. She likes them and given that her own time is limited, not to mention the fact that she has no idea how long it will be before she outstays her tenuous welcome, she plugs on, moving a shade nearer to take some more.

If the actor's silence seems sudden, yet surprisingly peaceful, it is a help to Brienne, who quickly shifts through different heights and angles, her mind now purely on her work. She moves closer and closer, though Jaime Lannister might as well be made of stone, for all of his input. He just lies there, the only sign of life in him his chest moving with his quiet breathing.

It is when she is almost standing over him that Brienne sees something different. He is looking ever upwards, as if into some place far above them, in the atmosphere above the Five Kings Hotel, but if she had to hazard a guess, she might say that those eyes held a touch of doubt. She shakes the thought off as soon as it arrives as too ludicrous to contemplate, and instead decides to deal with a minor technical issue.

She leans over and timidly reaches her forefinger out. "Erm, do you mind if I just...?" She receives no reply, but chances a touch to Lannister's fringe. It's hardly the end of the world, but there is the tiniest lock which seems determined to stick out from his hairline at a peculiar angle. She strokes it down into place and pulls her hand back, only to watch in consternation as it pops back up.

The man beneath her cracks back into life, a laugh as free as the one he had let loose in front of the pit last night ringing out between them. "You’re not as bad at this as I thought you would be," he says, his mouth curling lazily into the widest of grins. "You’ve only been here for five minutes and you’ve already zeroed in on my one natural flaw."

Brienne rises up to her full height and glares down at him. "Yes. It’s hideous," she says, as blandly as she can. "I’m not sure how you live with it."

With a long, rumbling chuckle, Jaime Lannister pulls his legs in and stands on the sofa, looming over _her_ for a split-second, before hopping down to stand what seems like a hair's breadth from Brienne. She can feel his gaze roving over her neck and her cheek, though at least when he looks into her eyes it is without pity or scorn. An eyebrow cants upwards. "It’s sickeningly good of you to attempt to empathize with my tragic, hidden pain," he tells her, amusement still shaking within his ribs as he heads in the direction of a side door. "Back in a tick."

Brienne can’t tell if he is finding his humour at her expense. She gets the odd feeling that he isn’t. When she hears Lannister muttering wryly to himself about dealing with his ‘own personal hideousness’, the echoing of his voice indicating that he must be in a bathroom, Brienne walks over to the window and looks down over King’s Landing. She is rarely up this high, but always loves the view; the sight of cars and people making their separate journeys reminding her of the pulsing of blood through arteries and veins. She is still staring out, thinking of nothing but the flow of life below, when a now perfectly-coiffed actor throws himself back onto the sofa beside her.

She spends a wasted moment musing on what it must be like to swan through life looking _that_ good, before she holds up her camera. "Do you mind if I take another run at it?"

"If I recall, I'm not the one on a budget for time."

"True," she says, going back to the chair to begin again. Now she works with increased rapidity, being more aware of what she wants here. Yet she finds there is something missing, stopping as she draws closer to slide back through a small number of the images she has just taken. Brienne almost smiles to herself when she realizes that she prefers the first set, complete with an ever-so-slightly unruly golden fringe.

She moves to his side and leans over him again, this time to frame a shot from directly above, though Lannister breaks his own apparent preference for silence during photography as she takes the first one. "Have you risked dipping your toes into the blogosphere, this morning?"

"Can’t say I have," she tells him from behind her camera, the shutter clicking. "Not that I'm ever in a hurry to."

"Well, your phone number is making the rounds. Half of it, anyway. I made the mistake of taking off my jacket at the end of the after-party. 'Whose number is it? Has Jaime Lannister finally found 'uncreepy' love? Who is the mystery lady?'" Her subject grimaces. Brienne can only imagine at the outlandishness of such an idea. "For fuck’s sake, right?"

"Right," she agrees flatly and straightens up, whispering, "Great," quietly down at her camera as she turns and heads to the middle of the room. She really doesn't want to think of the jollity that is sure to erupt in the pit, if that particular gem ever gets out. “Do you mind moving now?” she asks him then, waving her free hand around her. “Wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Not at all,” Lannister says, though he doesn’t venture far. Instead, he rolls gracefully off the sofa and settles in front of it on the floor, folding his legs neatly. It isn't quite the change of scenery Brienne had anticipated, but she simply moves back to a place directly in his path, sinking to one knee a few feet away from him and lifting her camera.

The first shot in this position, one of his face and neck alone, is photographic gold, and the knowledge of it tingles between Brienne's shoulder-blades the very moment it is taken. She can't help but immediately pull back a little and smile at her small screen. Backlit, his hair is suffused with a cold light, and his features, made darker by that minimal shift, are more defined and dangerous. She switches the image to black and white and prefers that even more, the sudden draining of the unusual green in his eyes making the quiet defiance currently pooled in them stand out yet more. Brienne can see this one image filling a whole page at the end, if the article grows larger than her less than stellar history of interviewing celebrities will allow, and if Tarly will go for it.

She saves both photos, pleased that she has _something_ notable to pass on to her editor for her efforts, and carries on; edging her way around to Lannister's right, taking more pictures from a shifting viewpoint. If she feels decidedly ungainly each time the toe of her heavy left boot drags noisily across the wildly expensive designer rug beneath her, she tries not to show it. And the final image in this set turns out to be almost as good as the first, though it is more by chance than design.

Brienne takes her last intended shot at his side, in pure profile, but then he starts to turn his face towards her and she grabs another on impulse. She slumps down against the sofa for a few seconds, flicking back and forth between the two, and decides that the latter would be her first choice for the mid-page; the tension in his neck as he began to look her way almost beautiful.

"You’re very picky, aren’t you?" Brienne starts at Lannister's question. He just points to where the set had begun. "Considering that I'd swear you hit the jackpot with that shot?"

She just shrugs and shoves herself upwards, unable to shake off the sensation that she is lumbering all the way, until she finds her feet. Then she heads back to the chair in front of them both. "It’s your image I’m capturing here. I’m assuming you would prefer I didn’t send the picture editor any from a bad angle."

"I don’t have a ‘bad’ angle," Lannister tells her as she faces him once more. Brienne watches him push his arms out casually along the edge of the sofa seat cushions, absolutely confident of the fact.

She sits down in the chair with a thump and smiles as she takes one more picture, the relaxed arrogance in him too great a lure to resist. She smiles behind her camera. "I’ve seen a few photos of you being arrested, back in the day –"

“’I looked drop-dead gorgeous in all of them,” Lannister laughs, though then he seems to stare curiously, through the lens and into her. “’You’re being judgmental, which is odd. You know, all things considered.” He points again, this time at the left hand side of her face, obscured to him though it must be by fingers and black plastic and silver metal. “Was there a terrible bus accident or something?”

Brienne drops her camera a little, not letting the question hit home. She’s heard far worse, in the last day alone. “No. I don't think that’s...,” her voice tapers to nothing as she rapidly thumbs her way through all of the photos. “How do you do that?”

“What? You can't find a bad one?”

“I really _can't_ ,” she says, shaking her head slowly at the display. It doesn’t quite seem possible, but so it is.

“Colour me surprised. Or not, as the case may be. I know it wasn't a terrible bus accident, by the way, Brienne.”

That last sentence comes so easily, tagged swiftly on without pause for thought, that Brienne’s chest is close to painfully seized by stillness before she even seems to register his words. How would someone like him know anything of her? Of her history? Even lifting her head to look at him is an effort, her throat having been jarred into a sudden and unbearable tightness. _“What?”_

For a moment Lannister stares at her, his gaze stripped bare of any pretence, but then he fumbles about behind him, underneath the sofa. In the end he hunches over to one side, to reach further back, his other arm flailing out to catch the leg of the table and drag it closer again. And then he pulls out perhaps a half dozen magazines, sliding them onto the highly polished surface. They fan out in Brienne's peripheral vision as he speaks, the cover of the one on top lifting and waving gently before settling back into place, but she cannot bear to see them. "I know it wasn't an accident, Brienne Tarth. The first woman to report from any front line. Former war reporter of some promise and note. Who is now inexplicably working the dredge desk for some gutter tabloid."

Brienne's heart thuds rapidly in her chest. It feels like she can _hear_ it. "What _is_ this, Mr Lannister?"

“Nothing to fear, Brienne,” he says softly, nodding his head towards the hallway. “You can leave at any time.” A breath shudders roughly out of her and he seems to notice, wrapping his voice briefly in genuine warmth. “My apologies for the ruse. I can see it was a poorly judged one.” But then he looks lower and smiles. “Stop gripping the arm of that chair for dear life, will you? I'm not some kind of serial killer. I think some of your colleagues would have found that out, by now.”

His humour may have swiftly made a reappearance, but Brienne has yet to find hers. She can see he is no threat, the physical strain within her easing quickly. Yet she can’t bring herself to be forgiving, her words coming hard and thick with accusation. “You're not exactly squeaky clean.”

“No,” he freely admits. “I'm not. If I may speak entirely off the record?”

“You can,” Brienne says, peeling her fingers away from the chair and her camera, fumbling with the thin jacket pocket made of netting over her chest. She pulls her phone from and it and holds it up, showing her interviewee the sound features being engaged. “But I _am_ going to record this.” She hits the red button and leans forward from her seat, placing the device precisely on the very edge of the table, where it can be seen by them both. “And then you can watch me delete it, when I'm in a public place.”

“Fine.” Lannister obviously thinks the precaution needless and Brienne is already tempted to agree, though she doesn’t like being lied to, nor being made to feel the fool. Yet the moment she sits upright, the actor leans in his turn, hitting pause on the recording with a flourish. “But first of all, there are two subjects that are off the table.”

“I wonder what they are?”

He accepts her brusque question with a cutting grin. “You _are_ sharper than you look, aren't you?”

“I don't think you have to be that 'sharp' to guess about Aerys Targaryen being a possible subject here, Mr Lannister.”

“Jaime,” he says, though underneath that softly spoken name lies steel.

Brienne shakes her head. _“Mr Lannister.”_

Brienne can't say that how she addresses him carries any weight for him at all, but Lannister simply seems to take her attempt at chilly formality on the chin, letting it flow over him before he speaks, each word a hammer of its own. "Yes, I seriously injured Targaryen, and afterwards saw _him_ arrested. Then he was committed. But if you think I have the kind of pull to see a man institutionalized in the most secure psychiatric facility in the world for _decades_ , you're going to be very disappointed in the truth."

As her mild sense of panic at his deception ebbs completely, Brienne is thrown again, but now by Lannister's lack of remorse on the matter of the man whose life he changed forever. It doesn't feel like the madness she has occasionally encountered, if blessedly rarely, in areas of the world scourged by war. There is no mania in Jaime Lannister, as far as she can tell. If anything, he is looking at her as if there is a perfectly rational explanation for his past actions, as if he is waiting for her to ask to hear them. But if she is curious about it, and she is wildly curious, Brienne says nothing, unsure if she wants to know. In the end, he looks away, at his right hand, and scratches a blunt fingernail over the smooth leather of the armrest. "Best I don't share, I suppose," he says, more lazily now. "I have a certain reputation to maintain."

"Yet you've worked with his daughter a few times," Brienne says quietly into the tense air hanging between them.

"That I have," he tells her, his gaze swinging back to meet Brienne's with a hint of defiance. Then a bleak grin steals over him. "Which has been a whole lot easier since she finally went to visit the old man, I can assure you. On that, I have nothing more to say." His lips curl in distaste and he says, "You're going to ask me about my sister next, aren't you?"

“I wasn't going to.” It isn’t a lie.

That truth is one that her interviewee obviously finds hard to believe. He chuckles darkly. “How disappointed Randyll Tarly would be to hear that. It is Tarly, isn’t it? The idiot with that weekly news review spot on SNN?”

Brienne nods, unsurprised that the actor has seen her boss peddling his controversial opinions on hot-button topics on the news channel. She has never been quite sure how real those views are; that Tarly underestimates women is a fact of which she has daily proof, but he seems to amp it up even more on television, in order to champion the ‘traditional family values’ of the Herald. "He’s always disappointed with me. And I'm not interested in rumours."

"Oh, but they weren't rumours," Lannister whispers, watching her, hawk-like, for any measure of reaction. Brienne may be shocked, but she has heard worse in her time, so she gives him none. “I even used to wish it'd been more than it ever was,” he adds. “But then…our story wasn't the only one to come out, after she died, that turned out to be true. Hindsight is a good teacher, as they say. Also, a _bitch_.”

Brienne swallows, not without difficulty. “Did you…hurt her?”

“Never.” That word rings true within her the moment he utters it, his gaze clear and free of any ill conscience. But then there is a flash of weariness in him. “It wasn't suicide that took her, Brienne, whatever you've heard. It was addiction, plain and simple.”

She can’t quite draw any sense from the fleeting glimpses of emotion he struggles to keep in check then. Love and loss and hurt and emptiness, even indifference, seem to war in him for a few seconds, though finally he settles for a shuttered stare, closed off, whatever is happening in his head tidied neatly away. Not for her. “Why are you telling me this? Why would you say anything at all?”

He remains silent for a while, just looking at her. It is slightly unnerving, as Brienne has no idea why she would warrant such an inspection. But then Jaime Lannister lets out a slow, steady breath and speaks. “Because I saw you in the pit last night and I decided to take a leap, of sorts. A risk.”

“I don’t understand.”

He laughs, she thinks at himself, and it cuts through the heaviness that seems to be stifling them both. “Brienne, I’ve spent twenty-five years playing the action hero. I’ve single-handedly saved countless entirely fictional nation states with sarcasm and a vast array of weaponry with a magically endless supply of ammunition. Did you happen to see ‘The Doom of Valyria’?”

It doesn’t take her long to think on it. “I can’t say I did.”

He hardly appears to be offended by that. In fact, his smile might be advising that she ought not to bother. “In that, I stopped an earthquake by rappelling into a canyon where continental plates meet and strategically deploying a nuclear weapon.” He holds up a hand. “Please, don’t hide your scorn. You should have seen _me,_ when I got the script.”

In spite of everything, Brienne can feel the smallest smile emerging. “It does sound awful.”

“It _was_ awful,” he confirms, with a slightly baffled shrug. “And yet it took 200 million in a single weekend.” His fingers drop back down onto to his lap. “Don’t ask me how. I have no idea.”

Neither does Brienne, but she is all too aware that she isn’t getting any answers. “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

“Brienne, I’m _bored_ ,” he says, his tone now full of ease. “I know that hardly qualifies as a world-shaking issue, but while I’m grateful for what I have, I’m also sick to the back teeth of hanging in harnesses, in front of green screens. I don’t want to only be known as the man who drove a co-star to madness, fucked his own sister, and blew up a number of made-up countries in order to stop the unlikely plots of villains with cut-glass accents.” His head tilts and he looks at her in a way she can’t attempt to define. “I want to do something _worthwhile_.”

“And?”

“I need someone I can trust.”

“I work for the Herald,” she points out. “What makes you think I can be trusted?”

“These,” he tells her, his left hand rising to rest on the nearest of that arc of glossy papers, sitting in the corner of Brienne’s vision.

Even the sight of them pains her, though she looks at them for long enough to know that these are probably unsold back copies, fresh out of plastic. She can almost smell it on them, as well as the ink that has stained their pages with her mistakes. "Don’t believe everything you read," she whispers.

“Do you think _I_ need to be warned about that?” he grins, though it quickly falters in the face of her obvious discomfiture. "Brienne," he says, briefly tapping his fingers on the thrice-damned magazines, "I’ve read all of your war reports that I can find. I trust what I see in them." She knows she is scowling at him, but he just stares at her, openly and maybe even honestly. "And I think I can trust _you_. That's why I asked you here. You'll get your interview, sure enough, but I needed to meet you. To work out if I _could."_

Brienne leans back in the chair, her shoulders hitting butter-soft leather with a dull thud, and shifts her ankle from side to side in the far tougher leather of her right boot as she tries to make sense of it all. She is angered at having been deceived, after a fashion, yet as things stand, she is to get the interview she needs. And there can be no reason she can discern for Lannister to have offered an insight, however small, into the stories that have dogged him for years, other than as a show of trust. That it should be placed in her seems astonishing to Brienne, but the fact that he has in the first place sways her.

“All right. I’ll bite. What do you need my help with?”  Even while she is saying it, the truth hits her like a cold wave and she rises to her feet, glaring down at him from above. She can think of only one reason why a star with Lannister’s status would choose to become more acquainted with a relatively obscure tabloid journalist. He must need a positive spin on something. “What have you done _now?”_

Her attempt at being imposing fails miserably. Lannister simply laughs and waves her concerns wordlessly away, before starting to dig under the sofa again. This time, he has to tip right over onto his side to reach far enough and Brienne gets an eyeful of that back, which she had somehow quite forgotten as they talked, until he re-emerges, a thick, dun, card folder grasped in one hand. He tucks his legs back in and, with absolute care, places the folder neatly in-between them. At Brienne’s feet. “Something stupid,” he says, looking all the way up at her and biting his lip.

Brienne must be regarding the innocuous brown card as if it is hiding a live viper, because he laughs again. “It _won't_ bite, Brienne. Well, it won’t bite _you.”_

For a heartbeat, their eyes lock and the undisguised air of challenge in Lannister sees her leaning down to pick the folder up. Brienne takes a deep breath and opens it, thumbing cautiously through the first few pages. What she finds there is far from what she had expected. “Is this a screenplay?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

Brienne huffs and drops to the floor as well, the edges of the soles of her boots digging into her legs as she settles into place, her head bowed. She quickly leafs through the whole sheaf, moving forward a few pages at a time. “You’ve written your own screenplay,” she mutters, noticing that the scrawl in the opening improves markedly by about a quarter of the way in. She looks up at Lannister in disbelief. “By _hand?”_

“I find myself wondering how you’ve won such high praise for your ‘incisive’ reporting from various arenas of conflict,” Lannister offers dryly. “Yes. _By hand_. I didn't want anybody else to see it. I can’t trust certain members of my entourage around electronic devices, and I’m pretty sure not a one of them would expect me to lift a pen for anything other than signing autographs.” He nods towards his work. “I've been lugging that around with me for the last two years.”

That catches Brienne’s attention as much as anything else he’s said today. “Two years?”

"Yes. Two years.” He says it quietly, but it feels to her like a confirmation of more than a coincidence. He turns his right wrist over. Brienne sees that his mildly uncooperative fringe is not his only flaw, though the one he's adeptly kept turned away from her until now speaks of science rather than nature. A tracery of fine pink scars runs over the inside of his forearm, so neat they could have been tattooed into place or drawn on with a ballpoint pen. "Fell from a stunt rig. Primary safeties failed, but the secondary ones held. Still took a hell of a hit though, and spent a month or so in hospital. I ended up watching the news channels,” he tells her, his eyes twinkling. “A lot."

“I see,” Brienne says slowly, as the incomprehensible becomes startlingly clear. She has no idea what to make of him, or of anyone having watched the rolling news coverage of the months when almost every foreign journalist in Essos was ‘disappeared’. She knows it existed, of course she does, and that it is still out there, but has never wished to see any of it for herself. So instead, she looks appraisingly at the scarring on his arm again. “It's good work. Better than some of mine.”

“I didn't want to say.”

She takes in his sly smile, the nonchalant way he throws the lie at her, and decides to reply with a dose of the cold truth. “I wasn't talking about my _face.”_

His comeback takes a wholly more concerned tack than she expects. “Your arm then? I saw the footage of you being flown back in. Everything above there,” he says, lifting his hand and dropping it like a sword slice, indicating a line running from her right collarbone to the left of her ribcage, “seemed to be nothing but bandages.”

“My arm healed quickly,” she grudgingly reveals, then pats at the thick collar of her jacket. “The back of my shoulder needed a mesh graft. That was more of a problem. It’s better now,” she replies to his obvious, but unvoiced, question. “Not the same, but not an issue anymore.” She doesn’t mention that she hates the feel of her skin there now, healthy though it is, the rough texture left behind after her treatment making her feel even more like the ‘beast’ she has so often been called. And she certainly doesn't tell him that the scar on her shoulder isn't amongst those that bother her the most, to this day.

Lannister seems to accept her basic description without question and grins at her. “So…now that you know how I found out about your work, Brienne Tarth, will you look at mine?”

“No-one else has ever seen it?”

“No-one.”

With some trepidation she agrees, with a slow nod and a deep breath, taken as she stares down at the paper resting on her legs. Then she starts to read, though every letter, if almost childish on its own, comes at her in a different style, making the whole thing nightmarish to decipher.

Only a few seconds go by before Lannister interrupts her. "You might want to skip over the first fifty pages or so, for now." The fingers of his left hand creep into her eyeline and wiggle. "I was writing with this, at first."

It makes sense and certainly explains how, in opposition to this tricky beginning, the majority of it plays out in the style of one who has experienced the most elite of educations. "I won't, if you don't mind. I'm more of a photographer than a writer, but I know that what happens when you first have the idea is important."

Lannister shrugs his acquiescence, though Brienne suspects he isn't nearly as sanguine as he appears to be. She knows she wouldn't be, so she gets down to the task at hand. As it transpires, it doesn’t take her long to get used to these earlier scribblings and she finds herself swept along in an elegantly planned, if somewhat exaggerated battle scene, given that it seems to be from the point of view of a single character. There is too much clarity in it, to her mind, though she has no idea how movies are planned out. She supposes it would be very entertaining to watch and it shows a deft understanding of action sequences, which is a sure illustration of the vast experience Lannister has in the field.

She can feel, more than hear, him fidgeting minutely in the background. “How did last night go?” he asks, too casually. “I didn't see you up at the Keep. I'm fairly sure I would have noticed you there.”

Brienne keeps reading. “I headed down to the Rush Club instead. It went well. Not that you'd know it from Tarly,” she adds, puffing at her thin fringe, which is hanging in front of her eyes. It does no good. She glances up at Lannister with a mildly bemused frown. “I think I might have picked up some kind of...unpaid apprentice, on the way?”

“You don't look completely happy about that.”

“I'm not sure I am,” she mutters, looking back at the thick wedge of paper on her lap. “Pod's too good for the pit, for starters.”

“What do you mean?”

"I mean that he made us stop at a Sugar Shack on the way, to pick up a huge bag of freshly cooked doughnut bites." She can't help but nearly laugh to herself when she recalls the sight of Podrick Payne, budding photojournalist, leaning eagerly against the short barriers as the worthies started to gather for their celebrations, all the time unaware that his chin, cheeks and nose were liberally dusted with grains of fine cinnamon sugar. "He ended up sharing them with Daeny Targaryen and Margaery Tyrell. They hadn't eaten all day. They said they were starving."

"They probably were," Lannister says. He knows, probably more than Brienne does, the pains his female co-stars have to go through to be picture perfect on the red carpet. "He got interviews as well as pictures?"

"Yes. I suppose he did."

"Then he sounds ideal for the pit," Lannister reasons. "It could do with more of his kind."

Brienne tries to stem the snort of derision that throws itself out of her with the back of her hand. "Like that'll ever happen." She fixes her gaze back on the words in front of her, but only gets through another couple of lines before a statement, laced with overt curiosity, comes her way.

“You called her _Daeny._ Nobody who isn’t close to her calls her Daeny. She certainly won't let me."

Brienne winces at her unintended slip of the tongue. “I did. I know her. Well, her husband.”

“You’re friends with _Drogo_?”

Lannister sounds thoroughly impressed, as if gaining respect from the fierce Dothraki should be impossible, though to Brienne it is a simple fact of life. It didn’t start out that way. Quite the opposite, but events fell in their favour, in a manner of speaking, on a day when the sky above was a serene blue, and everything beneath it was chaos. Since then, she and Drogo have settled into a sort of comradely friendship, even if Dro has always been careful to spare her some of the more overtly celebratory aspects of his warrior culture. “Yes. I was embedded with the 1st Vaes Cavalry Division three times, when he was its Khal.”

Lannister blows out a long breath, and taps at his chest. “And there’s me, the ‘perfect soldier’, when the closest I’ve been to real war is the odd yomp I’ve gone on with groups of marines.”

That’s a commonality Brienne hadn’t anticipated, though on reflection, it hasn't sprung out of nowhere. “Do they ever make you carry more than your share?”

“Yes, and I always do,” he tells her, looking a touch too pleased with himself. Brienne can’t imagine him wanting to appear weak in front of members of the Armed Forces, but then, with a flash of white teeth, Lannister offers a secondary reason that would never have occurred to her. “It really pisses off the insurance arms of whatever film company I'll be working for next.”

“Same here,” Brienne says, unable to stop herself from smiling in response as she imagines various film executives making panicked calls to one another, trying to find out what Jaime Lannister is up to _now._ “Well, not the film companies. Just the extra weight, when yomping.”

“What's the most they've made you carry?”

He seems to truly want to know and she has no objection to sharing. “Twelve above standard.”

_That_ makes Lannister gape outright at her. “Twelve? You did _not.”_

“I did,” Brienne says, feeling her mouth flutter into the smallest of grins. “Why? What's been the most for you?”

“Eight above,” he tells her, green eyes narrowing distinctly at her mild tone. “Please tell me you stopped on the way.”

“I did,” she admits, unashamed of it. “Twice.”

Lannister lets out a playful, but short, cry of triumph and points at her. “And therein lies your problem here, Brienne. I never did.”

“That might be so,” she says, unable to resist being caught up in this light-hearted kind of competition, “but it was raining and extremely muddy. _Eight,”_ she finishes, sniffing at him, trying to feign disappointment and doing very badly at it.

A flawless face moves nearer, its bearer clearly enunciating, “One hour, fifty-eight and twelve.”

It’s an impressive time, it’s true. Still, Brienne doesn’t feel the need to change her own personal best. “Two hours, five minutes and eighteen seconds. Some of it in _knee-deep mud.”_

“I win,” Lannister claims as he sits back happily against dark leather, rolling his shoulders easily.

Brienne replies simply, with the best air of pity she can muster. “Eight.”

They smile at each other openly then. However, Brienne is deeply struck by the sudden sense of camaraderie between them. Too much so. Her eyes skitter back to the page she was reading, unwilling for now to consider Jaime Lannister anything other than the distant and potentially hostile celebrity. Even while he laughs softly in the background, she reapplies her attention to his screenplay.

The action of the opening segues into a well-handled description of the immediate aftermath of a battle, and Brienne becomes more submerged in the world contained within this pile of paper. She had assumed the main character is a man, only to realize that even at this point, their gender remains unmentioned. Brienne is swept along with the main protagonist, through city streets and sniper fire, real panic having been somehow exquisitely transmuted, for the most part, into a scant skeleton of dialogue and descriptions.

She barely notices Lannister rising to his feet in front of her, though she gets a brief glimpse of long toes before he paces softly away as she reads. She hears what might be a mini-bar opening, though when he returns, only a bottle of mineral water is waved in front of her eyes.

Brienne takes it and tears off the plastic seal, having been unaware that she was getting thirsty. She takes a quick sip and looks up at him to nod her thanks. She spends a moment wondering to herself if he truly has any bad angle at all, and then pushes the thought aside, seeking to offer him what little reassurance she feels qualified to. "Some of this is _very_ good."

"Don’t sound so surprised," Lannister smiles, dropping back to sit on the floor again, this time nearer than before. Once his legs are folded in, his knees are inches away from her own. Brienne sees that when they are sitting, they are almost matched in height. He stares straight at her, his eyes bright and sharp. "Some?"

She shrugs in a small way, flipping back through the screenplay until she finds the spot she's seeking. "Here," she explains, pointing at a particular direction on a page. "If you’re close enough to see the ignition point of a large explosion, you don’t generally get to run away from it. More like stumble from it afterwards. If you’re lucky."

"Ah," Lannister breathes, and then grins. "Then an over-abundance of pyrotechnics might be a problem, I'm afraid. Do you know how many explosions I’ve ‘acted’ running or jumping away from, over the years?"

"I...," Brienne tries to come up with a good guess, but only knows that most of his films since those first few years of wildly popular period swords and gore movies have involved a great many explosions. "I have no idea," she finally admits.

If anything, his grin gets broader as he brings his face closer. "Seventy-two."

_"Seventy-two?"_

Lannister rocks back for a moment, his fingers fluttering over his stomach, obviously amused by her astonishment. "Yes. Seventy-two. I counted them the other day." He waves a hand dismissively. "Well, I watched a compilation a fan made, and then mentally added a handful they seem to have missed."

Brienne shakes her head a little. "It’s easily remedied, I should think, but I'm no scriptwriter."

"No, Brienne," he says, firmly yet quietly. "You're not. But you _have_ seen war."

"I have," she agrees, meeting his clear green gaze with some unease. "But I wouldn’t presume to know what it is like to have it happen in my homeland. I suppose…there are a couple of refugee groups I could put you in contact with. I think I might have worn out my welcome, but there might be a few people who wouldn’t mind helping you."

"Why wouldn’t you be welcomed?"

She just lets her own gaze slide over to the magazines and then back to him. Lannister's eyes flit between her and the pristine issues too. "I’ve never been given to bouts of admiration, Brienne."

"I would never have guessed."

His mouth quirks at the hit, but he otherwise pays it no heed, lifting his left hand and resting it on the corner of the nearest glossy cover on the table. "But I can see no reason why people who have escaped the war would spurn you for this. This is good work, Brienne. Some of the best journalism I’ve ever seen and, believe me, I've seen more than I ever wanted to."

"Good, is it?" Brienne bites out, unable to help showing that he's hit a nerve. She jabs her finger towards the magazines. "I’ll tell you what they _are_. They're a record."

"Of what?"

The question is asked softly, yet nonetheless Brienne has to drop her head, her voice thick as she forces words past a wave of shame. "Of my naiveté. Of my failures."

"I don’t see failures. I see genuine problems, rightly being brought to wider attention."

Her head snaps back up, unable to bear the conviction in his voice. "Then you are seeing them badly."

Their eyes lock, and stay locked, and she can only seem to see Lannister's cheekbones move when he eventually says, "Enlighten me."

Brienne feels as if she scrambles towards the table, though in reality she merely reaches out for the one particular magazine that she still carries around in her head everywhere she goes, like a deadweight. She has been able to see it from the very moment paper spilled across spotless lacquer. Her fingers shake while she opens it on top of the screenplay on her lap, making sure it faces Jaime Lannister. She knows exactly where her article, the last and longest one she ever had published as a freelance journalist, is and it is only a moment's work to find it. She turns the first page and points to a photograph of an amiable looking man with grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. "This man was a respected paediatric surgeon. He is now dead." Her fingertip drifts over to a woman in a floral dress. "Dead." Furious with herself, frustrated that she cannot bear to even to say their names, though they might as well be carved into her skin, she begins flicking through the pages at a furious rate, spitting a verbal litany of her path of destruction into the air. "Dead. Left with permanent disabilities. Dead." And then her finger hovers over the one image that hurts most of all. "All of this family. Dead. Even the _children_." She glances up then, blinking away the utterly selfish tears she can feel beginning to well in her eyes. "Are you beginning to see a pattern here, Mr Lannister?"

For a few seconds, he keeps looking at the photo, but then Brienne realizes that her finger is still shaking and she pulls it away. Only then does Lannister look at her. "Are you trying to say that these people _died_ because they spoke to you?"

Brienne closes the magazine, stroking the cover, as if by keeping these pages safe, the people in them might somehow live, gone though they are. "I’ll never know for certain," she admits, aware that those caught in a besieged city, under constant bombardment, have little chance anyway. "But I had hoped that by letting them tell their stories, their situations might improve. I went to war wanting to _help._ " She loathes the desperate justification that suddenly makes her voice thin, and swallows before continuing dully. "And all I brought with me was death. I failed them."

"I think you take too much upon yourself." Lannister appears to be certain of this. Brienne is nothing of the sort.

She smiles bleakly at him. "I think you don’t know what you’re talking about."

He lets loose a groan of exasperation. "You’re so fucking _damaged_. What the hells happened to you when you were taken hostage?" He waves briefly towards the scarring on her face. "Were you tortured? Raped?"

Even the casual way he throws those two last words out at her makes Brienne angry, the latter more than the former. She wonders where it ends. When will her own body, poorly formed though it is, stop being a subject of male fascination? She can feel her nostrils flaring as she remembers all those who have asked her 'the' question, some more than others, and how few of them really cared at all. And she is not willing to allow herself to be fooled again, to believe that somehow, the question is ever about her instead of the twisted prurience of others. By now, Brienne knows better. "Would you ask that of a male hostage?"

She thinks she sees a flash of remorse in Lannister, but as always seems to be his way, it disappears before Brienne can truly note it, and she is almost past caring, in any case. "Probably not," he says.

Brienne shoves her face towards Lannister's, glaring viciously. "Then don’t ask it of _me_." She can hear her own breathing, loud and rushed, her chest heaving under her jacket as she gathers the strength to say the words she's had to often, even before today. "My body is _none_ of your business." She sits back and, feeling the smooth cover of the magazine resting under her fingers, moves it and rests it alongside its fellows on the table, with a deliberate sense of care. "Besides," she mutters as she looks at Lannister again, "I don’t make a habit of telling my secrets to any A-lister that I happen to be interviewing."

"Which I can tell you do a lot," he says, with a pointed grin, though it is fleeting, leaving him entirely as he leans closer to _her_. "Brienne, I meant nothing by the question," he tells her quietly, and the knot of anger in her gut eases. It is a poor apology, perhaps, but better than most Brienne has ever been offered, so she just watches Lannister as he slowly straightens back up, stretching his arms out to his sides, as if he were about to yawn. "Frankly, I was wondering what that fucking moron in the pit said to you, last night. I thought you were going keel over. For a second or two, I was worried you might land on _me."_

"It was nothing," she lies tersely. "And you were over twenty feet away."

Strong forearms flop back onto grey sweatpants and Lannister shrugs. "Like I said, I was worried you'd land on me."

"Great," Brienne sighs, staring down at his words to find the section where she'd left off. "Jokes about my height. How original."

"Who said anything about originality? I was stating the obvious."

She lets her gaze flicker up to his, sees him smiling at her openly, and tries to hide her own unexpected one as she returns to reading. "Yes. You were." Shaking her head in an approximation of admonition, Brienne goes back to the script, moving through it in small jumps, as she knows she won’t get to read the whole thing today.

Apart from the occasional breakouts of unrealistic artillery survival, which only serve to make Brienne's mood lift further anyway, it feels like there is a touch of alchemy in this story. She can’t quite pinpoint where it is to be found, but tension runs through it like tightened threads. The attempts of the main character who, as it turns out, is a man, to escape the city are gripping. But when he has failed Brienne finds the part that resonates most for her. She stares at a sparse description of a cell for a while, and a brief mention of the now imprisoned man seeing shapes and faces in the unevenly plastered wall makes her breath catch. She has to clear her throat before she can talk again. "This part...this part is good."

For a heartbeat, Lannister's mouth drops open and Brienne thinks he is going to protest her poor kind of praise. Yet then he seems to see that she means more than she could say, and just asks, "Is it?"

She can only nod in reply.

"Did you? See faces?"

"Sometimes animals too," Brienne whispers, only to let out a small huff of air, almost in amusement. "There was less plaster on the wall. More mould."

"All the better to see direwolves with."

Unwilling to confide that direwolves had indeed been amongst her menagerie during her captivity, Brienne nods again. "I used to -"

She stops her own mouth as soon as it starts, apparently of its own accord, and frowns, though Lannister smiles at her, for some unknown reason she wants to think encouragingly. "You used to what, Brienne?"

For a full ten seconds, she can barely breathe, let alone speak, so she squeezes her eyes shut. "I used to watch the dust. In the air." She expects him to mock her as she sits there, in her self-imposed darkness, but nothing at all comes, so eventually she allows her eyes to flutter open again. When she does, Lannister is simply sitting there, waiting. "There was only a little sunlight, for an hour or two, each day," she hesitantly adds. "I used to watch the dust swirl in it."

"And?"

Brienne turns her head away and stares at a perfect, featureless wall. Not so much as a sept mouse to be seen on it. "I used to imagine each mote of dust was a person, in a city. I'd make up stories about them, in my head, every night. It took me away from that place, for a while." She chews on her lower lip, feeling her cheeks burn in shame as she waits for Lannister to give in to the urge to comment on the state of her mind.

Again, nothing comes, and Brienne, unable to even look at him, finds herself wondering how she has just said more to Jaime Lannister, of all people, than she ever did to her own counsellor. She recalls months of appointments, all of which amounted to many hours spent in strained, uncooperative silence. And questions why she should talk now. Here. With him. She feels like an idiot and sits, frozen in place, her arms seeming damper and heavier in her jacket sleeves as she tries to shield herself against the inevitable.

When Lannister finally does speak, what he says is a bolt out of the blue. "Come and work for me."

"What?" she gasps, nearly tearing a muscle in her neck as she swings her head back around to stare at him. Brienne can't quite believe what she sees then, as she would swear he is being completely serious. _"No."_

He laughs, quick and hard, looking at her as if she is she an unusual specimen, under a microscope. "Why not?"

"I don't think I'd be any good as a yes man."

Lannister rests his elbows on his legs, his face in his cupped hands, and rakes his eyes up to meet hers. "Come now, Brienne, I think we both know I already have you pinned as a no woman."

"That’s not funny."

"It wasn't _meant_ to be," he says, holding her gaze steadily. "Brienne, come and work for me."

He really means it, she thinks, and for a moment she considers it, though it is too outlandish a prospect to accept. "No. I'll help you with this," she says, patting his screenplay, "if you think I can.  But no."

Suddenly, his eyes are level with hers again, edging towards flinty. "You stubborn...," his lips work in silence for a few seconds, "...you'd really rather work for _Tarly?_ He's a raging bigot."

"I know he is," Brienne says with the full force of her certainty. "But I have to find my own path."

It is Lannister's turn to gape, unaccustomed as he must be to having his wishes dismissed so easily. "And how are you going to do that working for a man who believes that a woman's worth only increases the nearer she is to a kitchen sink?"

He has a good point, though she has no intention of agreeing, given that Brienne has an even better one of her own. "And how would I find it working only for you?" She knows that letting go of her position at the Herald, much as she hates it right now, would only diminish her chances of finding better work in her field again.

What Lannister really thinks of her refusal, Brienne cannot tell, though he appears to swiftly move on to another issue, his face lighting with curiosity. "So why _did_ Tarly employ you in the first place?"

"Why do you think?" she bursts out. "Why would a man who believes women incapable choose to employ - "

Her explanation is interrupted by a low, yet loud growl of what could possibly be termed outrage. "The only female war reporter from Westeros," Lannister hisses, " _after_ she returned, along with her numerous male colleagues, from three months as a hostage?" He leans back, bracing his weight on his arms, his flattened palms sinking into the rug. Brienne watches in astonishment as he drops his head, his jaw twitching, his chest hauling in air rapidly, and realizes that he is genuinely angry. For her. The idea is so extraordinary to Brienne that she can’t reply, an impression made yet more striking when Lannister lifts his head again, snarling out, “Gods, he is fucking _pond slime_ , isn't he?”

Brienne’s ire at Tarly has long since subsided into tired acceptance, so she just smiles at Lannister's fresher vein of it. “He is.”

“He must’ve been furious with you, when you didn't feel obliged to spill the beans,” Lannister says, his anger morphing like quicksilver into something quite different, dark and brushed with approval.

“He was,” Brienne admits, her smile becoming rueful as she reveals the consequences of being so tight-lipped. “Which is why I've spent more than half of the last year covering all the _very_ grandest events.”

“Ah. Unicorns of Winterfell.”

 Brienne rolls her eyes upwards as the thrills of the rest of her day come rushing back in on her. “Unicorns of Winterfell,” she sighs.

"How long have you got before you have to head out for your flight?"

Brienne pushes her right jacket sleeve up a touch to reveal the wide-strapped watch she customarily wears there, noting the time with a grimace. "A little while, but it'll be tight. I haven't had a chance to pack yet."

"When was the last time you ate?"

Brienne thinks back through the last day or so, which has been a sorry rush of rain and travel and general lateness to last-minute assignments on her part. "Pod forced a doughnut bite on me on our way to the Rush Club," she offers as a reply.

The man in front of her isn't fooled. "And before that?"

“Yesterday morning. Maybe.”

Lannister stands up and takes the opportunity to glare back down at her as he might a wayward child. He nods in the direction of her equipment bag. “Get your stuff together. We can eat and cover the interview at the same time.” He moves off and picks up a sleek handset from a cradle, requesting a quiet table before disappearing into another side-room.

Brienne sits in silence for a moment, musing at how she feels like she is the one who has been interviewed. Perhaps she is, but there is still work to be done, so she takes her camera apart and packs it away carefully at her side. Then she takes a last look at Jaime Lannister's screenplay, and folds the cover shut. As she tips forward onto her knees, sliding the folder way back into its hiding place under the sofa, she hears the unmistakable sound of someone hopping their way into a pair of trousers in a hurry. "Don't do yourself an injury. I hear people die in clothing-related accidents all the time."

"Well, isn't _somebody_ learning about cutting-edge science at the Herald?" is the dry reply, interspersed with a chuckle and more hopping. There is thump when, Brienne assumes, he sits or falls onto a bed. "It would be an embarrassing way to go though. I can't deny it."

Brienne clambers up to her feet, lifting up her phone and dropping it into its thin pocket on the way, and then looks at the magazines. She can't stop herself from reaching down and arranging them in a neat pile. It feels like it would be disrespectful to leave them awry, and she slowly places the one that hurts her atop them all, albeit that she leaves it with its back cover showing.

She flexes her shoulders as she stands, only to find Lannister already there, scrutinizing her from behind the chair, in a pair of low-slung jeans, his plain white t-shirt hanging from the fingers of his right hand as if forgotten. "Why didn't you ever go back? You could have."

"No. I couldn't."

"Because of what happened to you over there?"

"No." She glances at the magazines one last, heavy time. "Because of what happened to _them."_

"Oh, Brienne," he breathes. "How did I know you would say something _appallingly_ honourable like that?"

He doesn't appear to require an answer, quickly pulling his shirt over his head. In this reversal of light, she sees the very faintest traces of her phone number, still visible on the inside of his left wrist. Brienne peeks at the back of her left hand and the much darker mark there that she'd struggled to remove any of during her hurried morning shower. She wonders how hard Lannister had scrubbed to do quite that well, and also why he hasn't yet mentioned her inadvertent use of a permanent marker yesterday.

"Are you going to stand there all day, or should we get on with it?" Brienne's short reverie is broken by the question and she picks up her bag whilst Lannister slopes his way out into the entrance hall of the suite. Brienne follows him, collecting a keycard from a sleek sideboard on the way, just in case.

She catches up with him as he steps into the wider hallway outside and reaches out, pressing the card into his palm. He turns to her and slides it into a back pocket, though he says nothing about it. Instead, Brienne notices that again, Lannister is staring at her left cheek. "It wasn't torture. This." Brienne waves timidly at her visible scarring. "You keep looking at it."

Most people would turn away in embarrassment, or mutter some kind of apology, even if Brienne suspects that Jaime Lannister far from falls into the category of 'most people'. He just keeps on looking. "It’s hard to miss."

That truth might be unwelcome to Brienne, but at least it _is_ one. "It happened during the rescue."

An eyebrow rises jauntily. "Are you sure your rescuers understood the meaning of the word ‘rescue’?"

Brienne remembers thinking that once or twice during the hardest part of her recovery, after infection set in, grateful as she was for her freedom; spending more time on a hospital ward than as a captive having led to some very dark days for her here too. Nonetheless, she will never forget the wave of sheer, overwhelming hope she felt, when she first heard the shouts of those who risked their lives to save her and others. Not for as long as she lives. "There were three of us locked in a room by that time," she says. "The door was reinforced and the extraction team had to blow it. We were told to take cover."

Lannister hums critically and halves the space between them, his head tilting to one side as he keeps her scarring firmly in his field of view. "You seem to have failed at that."

"There was no cover."

Instantly, he is right in front of her, his eyes wide, nothing else but his face to be seen. "Oh, no. You didn’t," he whispers, his gaze running rapidly over her features, only for it to fix with hers again, swathed in incredulity. "You _did_ , didn’t you?"

“Did what?”

"You made _yourself_ the cover."

Lannister sounds like he can hardly bear to believe it, though Brienne is sure he does. She makes herself as tall as she can, not wishing to be thought of as ridiculous for what was, to her, an obvious choice, and peers down at him. "I was the largest object in the room. It made sense at the time." There is the distinct sensation of her arm being prodded and she yanks it away. _"What?"_

"Nothing," he says blithely. "I’m just checking to see if you’re real."

"I believe I am," she says, her response suitably solemn. "I am not a -"

Her words stutter to a dead stop as Lannister sweeps in, his face moving even closer. His lips press to her cheek, at an indistinct point between the corner of her mouth and the weals that have made her more different than she ever was when she was younger. It doesn't feel to her like a kiss, at least not any kind of one that happens between adults when they are alone, as far as she knows. There is no sound to it, nor any aggression in its placing. If anything, is it a mere brush of one face against another.

Brienne is shocked into immobility by the gesture. It lacks any overtones she can divine, and she simply stands there like stone, while Jaime Lannister takes a half-step away again. In fact, it isn't until he falls still that she jolts into motion, raising her hands and shoving at his chest. "What are you _doing?"_

Lannister hardly even loses his balance, though she can hear one of his feet, oddly shod as they are in comfortable and well-worn red slippers, sliding back a ways over the pile of the carpet. He bounces back instantly, his eyes filled with what might be support, or even pride, though to Brienne it seems misplaced, if it is in her; in a decision she once made, in a split-second. And the more she looks at him, the more she can see that any deception in Lannister has been washed away, however briefly. There is no joke at her expense to be found in him, even if his softly offered question might tell a different story. "Aren’t all the bravest knights supposed to be kissed?"

Brienne's mouth falls open, a thousand words wanting to tumble out of her in objection. But he is merely smiling. Not laughing. "I think you just got it the wrong way around."

"You could kiss me," he suggests, his humour returning with a vengeance. "I've been brave in all of my films. I’ve read some of the better reviews. You know, when I could be arsed to. _Everybody_ says so."

That blatant exaggeration is delivered with a grin so wide that Brienne can't resist replying with a smaller sort of her own, albeit that it is given as she plants her hands firmly on her hips. "I don't think so, Mr Lannister."

As she expects, he doesn't seem too disappointed, turning to face the path ahead and cocking out his arm. "In that case, I think I should escort you downstairs with proper decorum due to a lady of honour." She doesn't move an inch, and Lannister wiggles his elbow. "Well?"

"I’m no lady."

Lannister lets out a low groan and walks slowly forward, looking back at her all the while. "Do you _really_ want me to dig through my sack of excellent alternate names? I have a fair few, if you wish me to air them. And I really don't want to go downstairs looking like a broken mug." His feet stop and he lifts his elbow yet further.

"Save your names," Brienne chides, stepping to his side and grabbing his forearm, a little ungraciously. "I've heard them all before."

If, for a moment, Lannister believes that some kind of verbal challenge, Brienne is grateful that his mouth snaps shut when he seems to think better of accepting it. They move towards the junction of the hallway, Brienne struggling to remember the last time she had taken anyone's arm, if ever, though then there is the sound of a quiet 'ding' that accompanies the lift departing. They shrug easily at each other as they turn into the main hallway.

"Typical," Lannister mutters, only to squint at her as they pace along. "I think I remember seeing you, some years ago, Brienne. In the pit. You are kind of...memorable, after all."

Brienne ignores the jibe. "I started out there," she blandly informs him. "It was the only job I could get, after college. But after a few months, I got lucky and got out of it."

"Only to end up back there now, courtesy of Randyll fucking Tarly," Lannister snaps. Brienne quells the smile that threatens to spill out of her then, as she remembers how Tarly had gifted the film star the same middle name last night. They walk quietly together to the doors of the lift and Lannister hits the button to call it back. Brienne taps at her bag and stares at the glowing orange display when it appears that, in the time-honoured tradition of people waiting for lifts the world over, silence will reign over them. However, the man at her side proves her wrong again. "So, I'm going to take a leap and guess that you were a part of the Equal Pay movement, back in the day. That would've been about the time you were at college, right?"

"'Back in the day'? It wasn’t _that_ long ago!" Brienne objects, about to point out the shortness of decade, compared to the length of _his_ career. Yet then, she recalls a rare interview she once saw, wherein Jaime Lannister, in flat opposition to many male celebrities of the time, answered a question about equal pay for women as if he were talking to a plate of extremely disappointing canapés. _'What do you mean, should women get equal pay? You might as well ask me if people need clean water. Yes.'_ Before today, she would have said that was the one completely positive thing she could say about the man. As for now, she isn't quite sure what to make of him. She looks at Lannister. "I was there, towards the end," she tells him. "And I wouldn't have thought you'd think that a bad thing."

"I never said it was," Lannister says, leaning in against her, his voice becoming conspiratorial. "But tell me, Brienne, and be honest. You weren't involved in the Dragonsday riots, were you?"

"Of course not! I would never go _looting_."

Her outrage sets him to chuckling. "Ever get arrested?"

"No," she says, but averts her gaze quickly, her right heel wiggling awkwardly in her boot. "Well, nearly. Once." Having admitted that, she can look at him again and say a little more.  "I did get tear-gassed a couple of times."

"Now _that_ was a crime. Your eyes are remarkable." Lannister looks her up and down. "Well, all of you is remarkable, I suppose, but your eyes are the _best_ kind."

"Great," she deadpans. "Thanks."

He just smiles as the lift doors open and pulls her in with him. She lets go of his arm and they both settle against the back wall, a foot or so apart. The doors themselves aren't mirrored, but the panels at the side of them are, and when the lift hums into life, Brienne sees a finger edging into her reflection, near her head. She leans away from Lannister and stares at him with suspicion. "What are you doing _now?"_

"Oh, come on, Brienne! You did the same to me earlier." He prods at her fringe. "It's kind of...lifeless, isn't it? Very soft, though."

Brienne slouches into the corner and frowns. "It's rarely like that. Blame five hours of standing in the rain."

Lannister's hand drops away to his side. "I see. So normally?"

"Like straw," she mumbles. "Thin straw." She can nearly feel a quip about her hygiene habits being prepared in Lannister's head, so before he can even say it, she huffs in frustration. "Every time I find a conditioner that works, they discontinue it about ten _seconds_ later!"

She feels stupid as soon as she blurts it out, but instead of finding her whining funny, Lannister gently reaches out to take her hand in his, folding his fingers around hers, his eyes suddenly pinned to the lift doors. It is a reaction that is utterly indecipherable to Brienne. She balls her hand closed, inside his, and he squeezes it with delicacy, just as the doors open again.

Then he lets go and Brienne trails him out through the huge main lobby, a little bewildered and unsure of what just happened. Her first real thought is that she feels positively alien when she follows Lannister into one of the restaurant areas of the hotel. There are numerous tables in the huge round room, nearly all of which are occupied by smartly-attired guests, and she is about to ask Lannister if there is a dress code for people who aren’t part of the film scene when a bald man with rounded features steps into their path, as if from nowhere.

“Mr Varys.” Lannister says the name with the bare minimum of politeness.

If it would be hard to miss his badly concealed antipathy, it would seem that Mr Varys operates with an excess of manners, taking no umbrage at his guest’s tone. “Mr Lannister,” he intones obsequiously, then transferring his pale gaze to Brienne herself. “And Miss Tarth, I believe. It is your first visit to the Five Kings since your return to work, is it not?”

“It -,” Brienne falters at yet another knowing her, even if she is grateful for his side-stepping a mention of her captivity. “It is my first ever visit,” she confirms.

“Then we are honoured indeed, this day,” the man says, his smile unfaltering despite his taking in a sweeping overview of her clothes. “If you will follow me, you will find a table this way,” he says, turning to lead them up the shallow slope that runs up one side of the main dining area. They pass a long arc of frosted glass, and into a narrow room that curves around the restaurant proper, disappearing as it follows the lines of the area it surrounds.

Brienne notes that the furniture in this section is decidedly more rustic than that in the far busier section, the noise from which has been reduced to a general hum, though she expects that the hand-crafted style is, in fact, far more expensive. The reversal makes her smile as Lannister says, “It seems a bit quiet in _here_ , this morning, Varys.”

It is apparently empty of anyone but them, though Mr Varys waves away any concern. “We had a few early risers, but most of our current batch of VIPs are still recovering from the night's festivities, I believe.” His arm arcs out in a practised and graceful gesture of welcome. “You may choose where to sit. There are carafes of fresh spring water at each table, naturally. Please just let us know whenever you wish to order anything else. Otherwise, we will not intrude.”

Then he is gone again, gliding off in his expensively tailored, but understated suit and making his way through a side door. In his place, a few seconds later, a highly trained waiter comes, though he just positions himself at the end of the room, paying attention whilst not paying attention.

Brienne looks at Lannister curiously, wondering why he should find the man irritating. “So? Mr Varys?”

He starts to walk slowly along the narrow walkway and as Brienne moves to his side, he shrugs at her. “I wouldn't trust Varys as far as I could throw him, but he is good at what he does. _Very_ good.”

“Is he the manager of the Five Kings?”

“I’d guess Varys is a _lot_ more than your average hotel manager. The most powerful people in the world stay here when they come to King’s Landing and he has access to every single one of them. He does know how to run a hotel though, I'll give him that. That’s why I tend to stay here when I’m in the city these days.” He drops his palm onto a random table with a slap. “Here?”

Brienne looks at the expanse of greenery that rises from a huge terracotta plantpot next to one of the seats, crawling across the walls and ceiling to join with others springing up from identical ones further along. She thinks it might be a real grapevine, though quite how it can thrive in a place with so little natural light is beyond her. “Maybe the next one? Rustling leaves might be an issue.”

Lannister doesn’t object and they are soon settling into carved, medieval hall style seats, opposite one another across what feels to her like an undersized table. She fiddles with her netting pocket to retrieve her phone and puts it down, only for it to be instantly snatched up by Lannister, who touches the screen to bring it back to life and then grins smugly whilst he waves it at her. “I suppose you want me to unpause it now, right?”

Brienne can’t believe she’d forgotten to do so, even if, in retrospect, she is quite glad that a lot of what was said in the Golden Knight-errant suite wasn’t saved. So she just watches Lannister set the phone to recording again and plucks it from his fingers, placing it precisely between them on the oaken table.

He winks at her and slumps in his own throne, such as it is, letting his arms drop and hang loose over the sides. “So what do you want, Brienne? An in depth character story, a collection of personal trivia, or an inane puff piece?”

“Pitched somewhere between the latter two?” Brienne proposes. “I think I can sell the ‘uncooperative and moody actor’ angle to my editor _and_ keep my job.”

Lannister actually snorts. “From what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t call that a win, but fine,” he says, sending her a look of challenge. “So, here I am. Have at me. Shoot, Miss Tarth.”

And this is the moment that Brienne has been dreading most all along. She can be polite until the dragons come home, but can’t bear small talk and, as that is what most celebrity interviews amount to, she can feel her brain shutting down. She’s had no time to prepare a proper set of questions, so she scratches around in her head to find one that might be relevant. “What’s your favourite movie?” Even Brienne winces at the triteness of that.

Lannister flies forward so fast that his stomach bumps against the table, as if being a foot or so closer will give him a more detailed view of her newly revealed weakness. He looks overjoyed at having found it and Brienne knows that as a result, he isn’t going to make this interview as straightforward as it could be. He taps out a merry beat on dark treacle-coloured wood for a second or two before replying. “Let’s see, it’s generally whichever one I’m being shoehorned into promoting at a given time. You know the score. ‘Best thing since sliced bread, everybody is the best of friends, loved it from the moment I read the script’.”

“Do you want me to run with that?”

“Maybe not,” he concedes. “I adore ‘Out of Mistwood’, but you’d probably best say the ‘Bloodraven’ series, for the purposes of my manly image." Lannister bows his head over Brienne's phone, obviously enjoying himself far too much. "Oh, but I must add…I am very excited by the forthcoming movie ‘Unicorns of Winterfell’." He grins slyly up at her. "It looks like it could be _life-changing."_

"Good to hear," Brienne says through her teeth. "Are you going to take this at all seriously?"

“No.”

“Great.”

“Hmm. _Great.”_   He leans back again, slowly shaking his head as though in pity. “Brienne. You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

“It serves well enough,” Brienne informs him, reaching for the carafe at the end of the table. She brings it over, along with the two glasses that were next to it. "So, how about...," she pours out some water and pushes it over to Lannister as she tries desperately to think of another question, only to eventually shrug as she says, "...food?"

Lannister just about manages to marshal his resources and keep himself from falling to pieces in the face of that pathetic journalistic offering, even if Brienne is certain his smile now would outshine his one on last night's red carpet. "You’re _terrible_ at this."

"Thanks." Brienne is half-tempted to say that she is more than capable in any other area of the news; that it is the shallow nature of show business, if not all of the people in it, that keeps her stumped in these situations. But she doesn't think he'd appreciate it, not to mention the fact that she feels she's already shared more than enough of herself today. Instead, she lines up a few of the more commonly asked questions, asking them in as overly-pleasant a tone as she can muster. "Do you have a favourite food? Do you have to keep to a diet? How do you keep in shape?"

Lannister actually guffaws then, his mirth uncontained for few seconds. "Brienne Tarth, did you just _bat your eyelashes_ at me?"

"I did _not."_  Yet right then Brienne feels heat rising in her cheeks and knows that might not be true. "If I did, I was trying to be sarcastic."

"Best to leave that to the professionals, I think," Lannister smiles, more softly now. "So, food and exercise. Well, I do gymwork, a lot of cardio…when I’m not busy being interrupted by exceptionally tall interviewers," he says, with a brief nod of acknowledgement to Brienne. "I have to eat healthily, in which I am aided by my manager, who also happens to be my brother. Sad to say, he’s an absolute bastard, complete with a sadistic streak, so I always end up longing for cheesecake." He suddenly sits bolt upright, blinking at her. "Do you think they have it here? I've never asked, in all these years. Surely they _must?"_   Lannister twists as far around in his seat as he can, almost hugging the back of it as he waves the waiter over. While the man makes his way silently over to them, Lannister looks over his shoulder at her, his grin crooked. "You can print that part about my brother, by the way. He’ll think it’s fucking hilarious." Before neatly shod feet even come to a stop, Lannister steeples his fingers, keeping his palms apart. "I'll have a slice of cheesecake. Chocolate cheesecake. A large slice. Huge." He glances back at Brienne. "You?"

"Nothing, thank you." Lannister glares at her stubbornness, as she is sure he sees it, but Brienne really isn't sure that accepting a meal in this scenario sits well with her, and is certain she can't afford the prices here for herself. "I have an in-flight meal to look forward to."

Green eyes widen with justifiable doubt, but then Lannister shrugs and turns back to the waiter. "Just for me then. Thanks." He squirms around until he is sitting properly in his seat again. "Really, Brienne? You said you haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

She ignores him. "I think we'll keep the cheesecake in the article, but it's probably best I leave your brother out of it. So, no cheeseburgers either, I'm guessing?"

"A rare treat, I’m afraid. Except for when I had to put on weight for 'The Mountain Falls'. There was a lot of playing with perspective in that, for obvious reasons, but I still had to get _stupidly_ large. For months it was just protein, all day long. Nothing but protein."

"Sounds awful."

"Awful and delicious," Lannister sighs with nostalgia, only to instantly pin her with a rueful look. _"Damn_. I’ve just given you your headline, haven’t I?”

"Yes," Brienne admits with the tiniest of smiles. "If it helps, it’s in keeping with your image. I think?"

"I’m delicious?"

"Shut up."

Lannister folds his arms in front of him on the table and rests his forehead on them. Brienne can see his shoulders shaking with laughter she can't quite hear. "I cannot believe how bad you are at this!" he puffs out, only to lift his head and settle his chin in its place. "Strike that. I _can."_

Brienne glowers down at him, speaking with dignity. "I don’t normally move in the circles of higher celebrity, Mr Lannister."

"No fucking kidding!" he laughs, peering at her jacket in a mockery of fear. "Do you actually own any clothes that don’t scream ‘military utilitarian shabby chic’?"

_"Shabby chic?"_

Her tone of outrage only serves to make Lannister happier and he flings out his right arm, using it to drag his upper body to the side of the table, so he can catch a glimpse over the edge at her trousers too. "Well, shabby," he smiles. "I –"

In a heartbeat, everything changes, Lannister's head jerking up as he stares past her. Then he is off, his chair tipping over onto its side when he charges away, disappearing in seconds around the curved, frosted glass that normally shields the famous from prying eyes.

Not today, it would seem.

Brienne turns so sharply in her seat that the armrest slams into her thigh, but she doesn't really note it as she hears a small scuffle. At first, a few vine leaves swirling through the air, torn from their mother plant in a more distant pot, are all she can see.

"I remember you! From last night! What the hells do you think you're doing?" Lannister comes back into view, his voice ringing out angrily. He is dragging a familiar face with him. Brienne nurses her forehead with her fingertips as she watches Ronnet Connington being swung around, and then shoved along backwards by his quarry, who is barking out questions all the way. Every step or two, Lannister pushes Ron’s chest, though it doesn’t trouble the photographer’s balance any. Brienne thinks he’s probably used to being propelled in that way by now; he’s had years of experience of it.

As they draw level with her seat, Lannister grabs the front of the shorter man’s jumper. “What’s your name?”

Ron tears Lannister’s hand away from his collar, staring up at him belligerently. “Ask your bitch,” he spits, then looking at Brienne herself, his defiance growing barbed. “Beast, I never knew you had it in you. Missing the east, were you?” he hisses.

Ron drops to the floor like a sack of shit, as Brienne's father is fond of saying whenever he is watching any of the fighting arts on television. The hit that puts Connington there is almost too fast for her to see, just a flash of tanned skin and an 'oof' from it's recipient, and she finds herself watching Lannister's right hand afterwards instead. She looks at his fingers, stretching and folding in reflexively. At a swelling, reddened knuckle. At the running of thin scarring over well-repaired muscle, as he twists his arm at his side. It is merely in the background that she notices her old foe flat on his back, his feet uselessly swiping at the flooring beneath him as he seeks to scramble away, trying to make some distance between himself and a new foe of his own.

There is still some fight in Ron to be seen, however. He glares up at the man who is looming over him like a storm. "What the hells is wrong with you? Apart from being _blind?"_

“Can you see anybody in this room with the name 'Beast'?” Brienne feels a strange detachment cloak her when Lannister asks Ron this, his voice clipped and cold.

“What?”

Lannister leans over the man sprawled in front of him and, deliberately slowly, twists his hand into Ron’s jumper until it is tight, making sure he pulls it irretrievably out of shape. With a sudden jerk, he lifts Ron’s head and shoulders about a foot upwards. “Say her name. Say it.” Ron doesn’t respond. Lannister speaks again, the anger bound within him rising. “Say the name of the only former hostage of fucking _war_ in this room. Do it. _Now!”_

“Brienne,” Ron grudgingly answers, only to drop hard, back to the floor, when Lannister stands quickly and lets him go. “The Beauty,” he tags on, his red curls pressing into the carpet as he rolls his head around to face her. “Or is it the beast, Beast? I can never remember.”

Brienne flings herself forward, her hip colliding painfully with the table’s edge. She reaches out and wraps her hand around the inside of Lannister’s elbow, holding it firm in the split-second before he manages to let another punch fly. “Lannister. Don't. Please.” Her voice is shaking, though whether it is with anger or hurt, she can barely tell.

But then she notices that Lannister is trembling underneath her fingers too as he turns his face to her, his eyebrows rising in definite question. Wordlessly, Brienne shakes her head at him.

Harsh laughter rings out. “So she _is_ a top, is she?” Ron glares at her with revulsion. “I thought so. Still, she can't be as bad as she looks.” He turns his attention to Lannister, just as she peels her fingers away from him. For a moment, she hesitates, but then pulls her arm away. “I've got some great shots of you walking out of your suite together, Lannister,” Ron says, his tone flooding with insinuation when he adds, “'friendly' as you like. I'll make a fair mint out of that. But more out of this, I reckon, right?” He touches the back of a hand to the corner of his mouth. It comes away smeared with scarlet. “Look at me, bleeding everywhere. Not to mention that I'm calling the fucking police!”

“No, Ron,” Brienne says quietly, sitting back in her seat, her fears ebbing. “You're not.”

“Beast, you can top every A-lister in the world, if you like. Don't ask me how. I only know I wouldn't want to see it. Doesn't mean you can tell _me_ what to do.”

“No,” Brienne sighs. She wants to say 'to all of it', but knows it isn't worth putting up the argument. “I wouldn't want to. But this is an interview. A _real_ one, and now that you are participating in this conversation, I am obliged to tell you that this has been recorded, and is still being recorded now.” She holds her phone out for him to see. “That's the _law_. I wonder if you remember what that is? Perhaps from college? I'm pretty sure you've ignored it ever since.”

Connington looks between them both in confusion, only to moan, “You're shitting me, right?”

“No, I’m not. And how do you think that it'll play out in court?” she asks him. “Given our history? You might be the king of the pit, Ron, but when it comes to lining up respectable character witnesses, I think you know I have you beaten, hands down.”

_“Mr Connington,”_   a smooth voice calls from the end of the dining area. Brienne watches Mr Varys flow into view, reminding Brienne of some kind of ocean liner, though perhaps a heavily-armed one, given the two burly and besuited men walking behind him in perfect time. He comes to a stop near Ron’s head and stares down at him, clearly displeased, even if his tone remains eerily calm. “This is the third time you’ve managed to bribe your way into the private areas of this establishment this year, is it not? How extremely fascinating.” Mr Varys edges his way around Ronnet Connington as if he were avoiding an offensively polluted puddle and moves to the upended seat opposite Brienne. He rights it and then inclines his head before addressing her, making no note whatsoever of the grunts of the photographer being manhandled up to his feet off to one side. “Miss Tarth, I am truly sorry that your first visit to the Five Kings Hotel has been interrupted by this,” he glances back at Ron, who is now being held firmly in the grip of the nameless men, “unpleasantness.”

“It’s nothing,” Brienne says.

"Nonetheless, I hope you won't mind if I have him removed from the premises."

"Not at all," she tells him. Brienne tries not to grin as she wonders if she should call Drogo, to see if he wants to give the in-house security team a hand. But they seem capable enough and it would be impolite to imply that they need help when she has never been here before today, so she stays silent.

Varys nods and Brienne gets the uncomfortable feeling that her thoughts have just been heard. "Then that will be seen to presently. Do ask for me personally, if there is anything you require during the rest of your stay."

"That won't be necessary."

"Be that as it may, the offer stands for the duration." Brienne has no idea if his smile is genuine, though it is pleasantly given, and watches the 'hotel manager' turn to his more regular guest. "Mr Lannister."

"Varys," Lannister says, both scorn and thanks somehow tied up in the word.

Mr Varys' eyes flicker down to the actor's swelling knuckles, and then to Ronnet Connington's face. He sighs dramatically and Brienne knows he doesn't mean whatever is coming for a moment. "I am sorry to inform you, ser, that if you wish to press charges for this dreadful invasion of your privacy, the Five Kings Hotel may not be able to provide footage of what has occurred here. You see, it is not our habit to record in this area, when it is virtually empty. As this situation is ongoing, I have not yet had the chance to check in with the security centre."

"Is that so?"

How both men stay serious when Ron cries out, "That's complete _bollocks!_ He _hit_ me!" _,_ all the while trying unsuccessfully to wrestle his way free, is a mystery to Brienne. She perches her elbow on the table and her chin on her palm, watching two expert liars, as they do so for all they're worth. After all, it would serve neither the hotel, nor one of its more well-known guests, should it be disseminated that Lannister punched a man first. Even _she_ understands that, though she has no intention of ever reporting it, given her role in the situation.

"That's a pity," Lannister adds, after the ruckus from Ron eventually dies down. "It sounds to me like a security policy you might want to review."

"And I'm sure I shall," Varys says, looking at his watch, "just as soon as I've met with the employee I expect to be leaving our employ in the next quarter of an hour. Probably unofficially. These absences happen occasionally, I'm sure you understand."

"I do." Lannister nods in a sham of agreement. "How terribly inconvenient for you."

"It ever was. Are you in need of any first aid?" Mr Varys asks.

"I'm not, though it is exceedingly good of you to ask. So now that the pleasantries are over, is it time for the unpleasantries?"

The actor's composure is about to crack and the manager can clearly see it. "It would seem so, though they have never been to my taste, as I'm sure you are aware. If there is anything you need, please do let me know, Mr Lannister." Mr Varys then turns back to Brienne. He smiles at her once more, and if she is beginning to find her reception here unnerving, there is nothing but respect in his tone as he says, "Again, I apologize for this incident, Miss Tarth. The Five Kings is honoured to receive such a worthy visitor."

Before she can respond, Varys is moving, leading his men and Connington away. The group has only gone a few feet when Brienne feels a tug on the arm of her jacket. She finds Lannister staring down at her curiously. _"Two_ apologies and a 'worthy'?" he whispers. "I think Varys approves of you."

For the life of her, Brienne can't think of a reason why and she shrugs. "I don't think it matters. The Five Kings isn't really in my price bracket."

There is a commotion when Ron, on hearing her speak, tries to twist around and get back to them, his feet sliding uselessly, even comically, over the carpet when the men escorting him simply grab him by the armpits and lift most of his weight into the air. With this final failure, he starts to shout in their direction. "I know it was your number. On his wrist! You -" A barrage of insults fly at her then, though Brienne doesn't mark them. None of them are new and she has the bizarre sensation that she's listening to 'Ronnet Connington's Greatest Hits', even if she can't imagine it would be a gift she'd consider buying for anybody she knows.

Though Lannister is looking at her with concern, when he sees how little Ron's words are affecting her, he grins. "It'd be a pity if he lost a tooth or two, on his way out, wouldn't it?"

She smiles back up at him. "Oh. You mean he hasn't already?"

Her feeble show of disappointment makes Jaime Lannister's eyes sparkle. "I doubt it. A punch always feels tremendous, at first," he says, wiggling his fingers, "but I have to say that a palm heel strike to the nose tends to hurt the one donating it less. More accurate, too."

"True."

Lannister walks around to his seat and throws out a couple of short jabs before he settles himself back into it. "Maybe if I'd been wearing gloves?"

Another imprecation, this one particularly vile, is thrown at her as Ron is dragged out of sight, resisting his departure to little effect every inch of the way. "A horseshoe in them wouldn't hurt," she suggests. "Well, it wouldn't hurt _you."_

Lannister hums speculatively and holds his hand up in front of his face. "Perhaps a metal glove of some sort? Wouldn't that be something?" he says, his eyebrows waggling, though all thoughts of ways to hit Ron harder seem to flee from his head when a large slice of chocolate cheesecake appears on the table in front of him.

Brienne watches as Lannister nods his thanks to the waiter. Then, with a grimace, he lifts the manicured sprig of mint from atop it, his dangling fingers reminding her of nothing so much as the mechanical arms of the machines that people play to try and grab cuddly toys at the seaside arcades on Tarth. Lannister is more successful than most tourists tend to be, depositing the mint on the side of the plate on his first attempt and Brienne wonders if he actually dislikes it or if he feels, as she does, that leaves have no place sullying dessert courses.

Then he starts to eat. Apparently, the cheesecake is _very_ good and for a few seconds Brienne is paralysed by the sight of Jaime Lannister transported to a state of near bliss. His eyes flutter shut and every sign of tension in him ebbs away, leaving just a man, albeit a stunning one, simply and silently existing in a moment. He looks as if he could slide out of his chair into a puddle on the floor. Brienne is about to avert her gaze, feeling as if she is somehow intruding, when the shouts that are dwindling away get louder again; and instead finds green eyes capturing her own.

"Is he still going?" Lannister asks, his fork clinking when he puts it down on the plate and just listens. The outburst is short, but again all about Brienne, and that provokes some interest in her interviewee. "His grapes are decidedly sour when it comes to you, Brienne, aren't they?"

Brienne stares down at the table, rubbing the side of her thumb over the grain of the wood. "He never got over me... _strongly_ refusing his flowers before he got to throw them at me, 'back in the day'." Lannister says nothing in reply, so she expands on the matter, if leaving out the fact that a certain reporter had needed dental work when _she'd_ finished with him. "Bets are quite common in the press pack and he was on holiday when I started out. He'd heard about the bet before he saw me, and decided to take a run at the 'new girl'."

"That’s...," Lannister takes a deep breath as he thinks on it, then his features shift, reflecting little other than disgust, "...appalling."

“It’s really nothing,” she insists. And it isn't. Not anymore. She remembers when it was something, when it hurt, but that feels like a lifetime ago now. Perhaps she was once as green as Pod, after all. Brienne shuts the distant past away and points at the floor. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. I could have dealt with Ron myself.”

"I don't doubt it for a hot second, Brienne," Lannister says, stretching his arms out, catlike, she now thinks, as he had earlier on in their meeting. "But I can't lie. It felt damned good." He flings his hands out in a few bursts, as if shaking out the excess energy still pent up within them, then rests them on his lap. "Are you all right over there, my shabby interlocutor?"

Brienne sees his concern, though it is needless. "That’s not very snappy. As _names_ go. I thought you had a sack full of them."

"I’m working on it. In the meantime," he says, leaning his head against the back of his chair with a groan of resignation, "I must admit I can almost feel sirens approaching. It’s been a while."

Brienne shakes her head. She's fairly certain how this will play out. She knows Ron Connington. He won't fritter away what little celebrity cooperation he can still get by having Lannister arrested; at least not when the original infraction was undeniably his. "I wouldn’t worry too much. I honestly don't think it'll happen. Do you know how often we tabloid journalists get hit? People do hear about it but for some reason, nobody seems to care. Plus, we have this," she adds, flicking at the top corner of her phone. It's sitting on a raised knot in the wood and they both watch it slowly spin around on the spot, "so it’s unlikely to get very far, even if he does call them in."

Lannister lifts his head. "Could you send the sound file over to my brother when we’re done?"

It may not be needed, but it's a practical idea. "Yes. I’ll need his address."

"Then do you have a pen? One that might work the first time out?"

She pulls out a brand new pen and sets it on the table. "We can try this one." She takes her small pad from a pocket mid-way up her thigh and opens it up, successfully scribbling on the corner of the first page.

Lannister moans in disappointment, though he obviously doesn't mean it. "Don't you have a _permanent_ marker?"

"I was wondering when you'd get around to mentioning that," Brienne smiles, fishing out one and placing it next to the ballpoint. It's important, as a journalist, to be accommodating to those of Lannister's ilk, after all. She remembers hearing something like that in college. He grins at the gesture, but doesn't move. "We could sit here for the duration, but I think you might want to write it down," she says, pushing the pad and pens closer to him. "Just an idea."

She taps her fingers on the paper as a further hint and Lannister slides his plate of cheesecake to one side. But as she lifts her left hand away, it is suddenly trapped in his, and though it is done without possessiveness, Brienne still freezes, her mind shuddering to a panicked halt. After a few, stuttering breaths which sound too loud in her ears, she is able to think, and knows that it is not his touch that has thrown her so off-balance. It is his intention, and the trust that he can't know she has to give him, if he is to do something as simple as writing something banal on her arm. It must seem to him like fair payback for what must have been an age cleaning her number away, and she doesn't think it unreasonable herself. So it is when, in seeing her reaction, Lannister gently releases her that Brienne takes a true leap of her own. With another, deeper breath, she relaxes and pushes her forearm further across to him, flipping her hand onto its back.

Warily, and only after she nods in confirmation, Jaime Lannister picks her hand up again and moves her heavy green sleeve up her forearm. It isn't the easiest of processes, but Brienne doesn't help. She doesn't think she can. If he notices how damp her jacket still is, it goes unmentioned, but then he might just be distracted by having found that she is wearing layers underneath. She always wears layers now.

"I'm pretty sure my brother once sent me a nameday present with this much wrapping, just to annoy me," he mutters, though not really to her, underscored by nervousness as he folds back the end of a very thin, loose jumper that hasn't quite travelled to her elbow with the jacket.

Then there is a layer of skin-tight, dark red elastane left, covering her right up to the edge of her palm. Brienne looks away, unable to watch it being peeled from her skin. It doesn't go far, perhaps halfway up, and she feels it ping back to her with some force, while Lannister's breath hisses out of him. She wonders if he thinks her weak, but can't bear to watch herself being revealed as such, to him or to anybody, so she keeps on staring at the surface of the water, rippling in the carafe.

She feels her arm being lifted and twisted, not far, but enough for Lannister to see the scarring at its worst. In the end, his voice calls her back. "You could have _said_ , Brienne." She looks at him and can see he doesn't think her weak. He's angry, but then, she can see too that he isn't angry at her. " _These._ These are the scars you hate the most."

"They're the ones I can _see_ the most." She doesn't mention how they are also the most humiliating, literally tied in with the shame of losing control of her basic bodily functions in front of others, and all the sounds and smells involved in that. "They're from cable ties. I...," Brienne stops as she tries to get her thoughts into some semblance of order, lifting her right hand to rub at her temple, actually smiling when her having reaffirmed her status as the world's worst entertainment journalist flits across her mind. But though she has turned out to be the interviewee here, she finds her interviewer easy to talk to, even if she has no intention now of letting him off the hook of telling her more about himself. She suspects she will never share much of what he has to tell, in any case. She shakes her head clear and, feeling more like herself again, she says more. Because, for the first time ever, she can. "For the first week or so we were moved around a lot. When the search for us was at its height. They kept getting close to finding us. And I...I kept trying to get us out. I thought that if we managed to break free quickly, we had a good chance of being picked up by friendlies."

Then comes an unspoken question, a fingertip brushing both of the pink marks circling most of her wrist, except for the very inside, where the skin, starved of sunlight for over two years now, is sickly pale. She points at the lighter of the two scars, which sits just above the knuckle there. "I chewed through the first ones. It took hours and cost me a chipped tooth," she says, wryly adding, "not that I suppose that matters."

Whether or not Lannister thinks it matters is hard to discern. He seems to have retreated behind a mask, if a softer kind, though the slight flaring of his nostrils shows he is not as at ease as he is trying to appear to be. "And after that?"

He uses his left hand to cradle her wrist then, as if to protect it from the table, and the gesture catches Brienne so off-guard that it takes her a moment to reply, even if the answer is simple enough. "Then they learned. They tied my hands behind my back until we were in a secure location. There wasn't much I could do from then on in."

For what could be a whole minute, Lannister looks at her, his thumb stroking against the back of her hand, unseen to both of them, but felt nonetheless. "Wouldn't it have been easier if you had just kept your head down?" he finally asks.

"Would you?"

"No, Brienne," he says, his voice thick. He clears his throat and leans away, not letting her wrist go, but continuing to cradle it. Once more, Lannister looks at her, his thoughts an enigma to her for a while. "I don't think I would," he says in the end, his gaze dropping first to her exposed wrist, but then to her covered one; quiet understanding dawning as, if she is reading him correctly, he remembers the wide strap of her watch. Brienne can only stare what he does after that, as he gazes at the middle of the table. Then his eyes snap back up to hers. "Your _boots_ ," he says.

Brienne nods slowly. "I have a _lot_ of boots," she tells him, which is confirmation that merely tying her hands was never going to be enough for her captors to keep her contained. "Mostly boots. I even go running in long socks."

Lannister leaves his left hand where it is, picking up the ballpoint pen and grabbing the notepad with the other. "No," Brienne says, wiggling her arm in his grip. "I didn't get this far for _you_ to back out."

He smiles, pries the lid of the permanent marker off between thumb and forefinger and bows his head, starting to carefully write out his brother's address along the pale, undamaged skin running up the inside of her arm. Yet he pauses after the neatly curling at sign, the nib of the pen hovering above her arm while he suddenly grins at her, his mood transformed into one less serious in the time it would take for the pen he is holding to drop to the floor. "You're not going to get this tattooed on later, are you?"

"What? _No!"_  Brienne blusters, though then she thinks that maybe some of his fans have done such a thing, in the past, however strange it seems to her. "Do people _do_ that?"

"Sometimes," Lannister says, finishing the address. "There's a lad out in Oldtown who asked me to write a random word on his arm once." He presses the pad of his forefinger to the ink and it comes away with a few black speckles. He sits back to wait for it to dry and shrugs. "He had that tattooed within hours, I hear."

Brienne, grateful for his effort to steer their talk towards the more easily conversational, asks, "What word did you choose?"

Lannister can't quite seem to look at her when he tells it, freeing her arm to reach for the cuff of her dark red top instead. _"Toast,"_ he murmurs, starting to tug at it, only to glare at her defensively, probably already aware that she would think that an exceptionally poor choice. "I'd just finished shooting for the day and I was _exhausted,_ Brienne. It was late, I was hungry, and it was the only word I could think of at the time." His head bobs from side to side for a moment and he smiles, as if in remembrance. "He's a nice kid, though. He danced around on the spot, afterwards. He's the one who made the explosions compilation. I follow his blog. After the tattoo he changed the name of it to 'The Bad Guys Are Toast!!!' With three exclamation marks. Just in case the esteemed readers of The Herald feel the need to go there."

She can't quite bring herself to disagree with the edge he lends to that last part, so Brienne asks what, to her, is an obvious question. "Does he know you follow it? Should I put that in the article, do you think?"

"No," he says quickly, going on to explain, "I don't want to 'totally freak him out', as he would say. I saw how he reacted to the toast, after all." As she believes he thinks about what is best for what must be considered his 'brand', Lannister drags dark elastane into place, and Brienne would be a fool not to notice how he splays his fingers underneath it to prevent it dragging over her scars, before letting it find its own place over her wrist. It's no longer needful, but she appreciates the care in it. "Maybe mention that I've seen it. I think he'd like _that_." More swiftly now, Lannister folds her thin jumper into place and then with a few ungainly pulls, brings her jacket sleeve back into line. Finally, with a last ping and the smallest of tugs, he drags the very end of her red sleeve up, to cover the margins of her palm. Exactly where it was to begin with.

His hands leave her, and if Brienne feels a pang at their absence, she reasons it has nothing to do with those hands belonging to a film star. She normally avoids physical contact if she can, always finding the rush-hour train to work a trial, but she has found Lannister’s gentleness something filled with a level of thought she would never have expected, and has certainly never experienced.

However, as she sits, caught in the oddness of that sense of loss, the man opposite her is visibly resolved to keep things lighter from here on in. _“So_ , Brienne,” he says, grinning ever more widely, “I think we should get this interview done, and that I eat my cheesecake before the rozzers come swarming in for my dramatic arrest scene.” Brienne isn’t even sure if he thinks it will happen anymore, there being no evidence for it coming to pass, but before she can say a word against it, he lifts a forkful of cheesecake and jabs it vaguely in her direction. "I expect it to do wonders for the Herald, by the way. I'll be very disappointed if it doesn't." His fork moves to his mouth, only to hover in front of it. "Are you sure you don’t want some of this, pathetic nods towards journalistic ethics be damned?" She remains silent but stoic in her refusal and he groans in frustration. "It’s called 'hospitality', Brienne. It's _allowed_ , and this is some damned _fine_ cheesecake."

He promptly pops the morsel of dessert into its originally intended destination, staring at her the whole time as he begins to chew. But within a few seconds, his demeanour changes completely, his eyes alight with humour as he slouches back in his seat...and starts to _moan._

_Not_ in a pained way.

Brienne feels herself reduced to ugly gawking as Jaime Lannister teases at his hair and runs his fingers down over his chest, rucking his t-shirt while a slew of noises start to emerge from him, growing ever more intense. Her initial blast of mortification doesn't last though, as her mind catches up with what she's actually seeing.

It's a carbon-copy of Margaery Tyrell, pretending to enjoy her apple crumble and her imaginary company a little too much in a diner in one of her romcoms, if Brienne is remembering it correctly. The film was released when she was out in the east years ago, but even she's seen the clip. Everybody and their dog has. And if she can't deny that the man in front of her is wildly attractive in this 'unfettered' state, she also knows it isn't true. So it doesn't touch her nearly as much as his quieter happiness had, after his first bite of the 'forbidden' cake. Brienne folds her arms across her chest, the threat of a blush abating fully while she glares at Jaime Lannister, virtually daring him to re-enact the whole thing.

He notices in the midst of a heady cry, and with a miniscule flicker of indignation, shoves his seat back a few inches to add his own twist to the famous scene. He flings a leg up over one side of the chair and turns, draping his head and arms over the other like a dying swan, his 'happiness' continuing unabated.

The improvisation is a step too far, but probably not for the reasons he thinks. If anything, seeing him arranged so artistically over the chair reminds Brienne of the paintings of old, where semi-naked women were depicted in the throes of ecstasy whilst posing awkwardly on uncomfortable looking furniture. That ridiculous comparison hits and, despite her wish to remain stony in the face of Lannister's pastiche, Brienne clamps her fingers over her mouth, trying not to laugh out loud, resulting in a short series of snorts emerging from her nose instead. She turns her head away, pinning her gaze to the frosted glass across the way until she can get herself back under control, even if the actor currently slamming his hand on the table and ecstatically shouting 'yes' at the top of his lungs isn't making it any easier. On her second attempt, she manages to look back at him.  _"What acting school did you go to, again?"_

At her strangled sort of yell, Lannister instantly sits up straight in his seat, bringing his hair and shirt swiftly back into order and retrieving his fork. He looks at her and sniffs. "The ‘overly earnest former war reporter needs a bout of hammy encouragement to indulge in something that might meander into the realms of the mildly pleasant at some point’ school. Have you heard of it? It’s world famous."

Brienne is about to take him to task over the general quality of his 'names' being poorer than he'd promised but, with perfect timing, her stomach rumbles audibly. And _loudly_. Lannister raises his plate and floats it in her front of her eyes like a flying saucer before dropping it back into place. He doesn’t say a thing, but then he doesn’t have to, and Brienne gives in to reason, with a grudging mutter of, "It _does_ look good."

Grinning truimphantly, Lannister turns to address the waiter hovering in the mid-distance. “Another slice for Miss Tarth, if I may?” he calls out. The waiter, who must possess a will of iron to have remained straight-faced through _that_ performance, simply nods politely and leaves.

Lannister faces her smugly. "Come on, Brienne. You're supposed to be interviewing me. I don't want to think of those poor, civically-minded police officers dying of sodding boredom when they review this recording in the coming days." He pauses for a moment of consideration. "Though I think it'd be a first."

Brienne wants to say that the last thing this recording has turned out to be is boring, but ends up scrubbing her forehead against her palm, knowing that she will struggle to think of anything useful to ask. She's tired, she's hungry, and if that issue will be resolved very soon, she can't deny that having bared more of herself than she ever has before has thrown her for a loop. She smiles weakly at him. "Hobbies?"

“I don't remember if I've mentioned this before, what with the recent trauma and all," Lannister says, waving out at the bare carpet where Ron Connington so recently lay, flat on his back, "but I will never forget just how tragically bad you are at this. Could I use your phone?"

The request is unexpected, but Brienne assumes he's going to call a lawyer and stops the recording to hand it over. Yet instead of doing so, Lannister opens her paltry contacts folder and scrolls down to ‘T’, plainly dismayed to find her editor listed under his actual name, instead of something more creative. He hits the call button. Tarly must be waiting for news of her expected failure, because there is the barest snippet of a ringing noise before her employer replies with his standard level of charm, as far as Brienne can tell from her place.

Lannister's mouth drops open at Tarly's greeting. "Do you _always_ speak to your staff like that?" Even Brienne can hear her editor's brash demand that he be told who has called him, and, somewhat nervously, settles in to see what her interviewee has to say. "This is Jaime Lannister. Yes. It _is_. You're her editor. Surely you should know where she is?" Lannister listens for a few seconds, appearing more and more bemused as he does so. "No, I am _not_ calling to make a complaint. Miss Tarth has been nothing but patient today." He pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at it in amused disbelief, before putting it back and speaking with dismissive clarity. "No, I’m phoning to let you know that I was delayed. _I_ mistimed our appointment. It clashed with my training regime, so we're running late. I don't -"

"Miss Tarth," comes a whisper at Brienne's side, ripping her attention away from the small lie as another plate of cheesecake glides into view. She looks up at the waiter, sending hushed thanks in return, though he bows in to add, "Mr Varys has asked me to reaffirm that he is available, should you require anything, no matter how small, for the rest of your time at the Five Kings Hotel today."

For the life of her, Brienne can't fathom why the hotel manager has taken such an interest in her well-being. "I'm fine, really. Please tell Mr Varys that I appreciate his concern," she says, as clearly and quietly as she can.

"I will, Miss Tarth." With a smile that is on the verge of tipping over from the extremely professional into the genuinely kind, the waiter leaves the table, and Brienne watches him go, confounded by the consideration she is being shown in this place.

Her puzzlement is cut through by the sharp tones of Lannister, his voice now icy with contempt. "It's up to you, Tarly. You can have Miss Tarth interview me, or you can send her off to the opening of a film that will premiere on a television channel that uses _bubble writing_ for its 'Up Next' captions. Which one would you prefer?" He waits for the answer, though Brienne barely hears it come to life before he snaps out, "I thought so," and ends the call, glaring at her phone as he distances it from his ear. He holds it up in front of his face for a second before his hand falls to the table and he shakes his head.

"You won't be shooting any unicorns today, Brienne," Lannister says, looking at her phone as if it were her offensive editor, in person. As if he can't bear to hold it. She knows the feeling. "That man really _is_ a smear of slime, isn't he?" he says, his sneer uncontained. They both know now that Brienne's urgent trip to the North was only assigned to try her. "He says you're uncooperative. And not a 'team player', amongst other things. I can't imagine anybody wanting to be on his team." For a moment his look at her is sly, but Brienne just lets it go, and can see when he does too. He places her phone onto the table, as neatly and exactly between them as she had when they first arrived here. "Anyway, the upshot is that you aren't going to Winterfell. So, if you have the time, you are going to get a fabulous interview from 'Jaime Lannister, movie star'," he says, his eyes narrowing. "With your own name stamped all over it, if I have anything to do with it. We're doing this for your sake, _not_ Tarly's. _"_

"Without two subjects," she softly offers. It feels like a reassurance she should give him, rather than a laying out of rules from either of them, and he seems to know it. Brienne can't think of any other route to take. They have both shown trust today and she thinks that they may show more, should they both choose to go on with his screenplay; he more than she, for she surely has little left to give to a man she only truly met this morning. Brienne is all too aware of the paucity of knowledge she has gained in comparison to her interviewee, in any way she would consider real, though she doesn't blame Lannister for it. Her own, brief exposure to being on the wrong side of the lens of the media was enough for her to learn how bad things can get. Yet only now is she seeing how cautious some _always_ have to be.

"Yes," Lannister tells her firmly, _"without_ those."

"Thank you for doing that for me," Brienne says. _For sparing me Winterfell_ , she thinks, because she hates flying now, though nobody knows it. _For not laughing at me. For not pitying me. For trusting me._ They look at each other for an odd moment. It feels like an agreement is sealed, though what it is, she cannot quite work out. "Thank you. _Jaime."_

The sound of his own given name shudders through him, even if Lannister does little to actually show it. Not Lannister, he's Jaime, Brienne tells herself, as she watches him. His name is Jaime. Her subject's sudden pallor is the only overt clue to his being moved by her saying it at all, though Brienne would swear she had felt him hearing it in her bones. Yet as is obviously his way, the reaction passes like the flowing of quicksilver. She is hardly past her own awkwardness at having said it to him for the first time when a fork is plucked from a plate and pointed at her again, only accentuated by flawless eyebrows working at full tilt. "Well, even if the police are a no-show, I just figured that at this rate, it could take you 'til sundown to rustle up a decent question," Jaime says, his voice dry as dust. The piece of cutlery arcs over towards her plate. "Are you going to eat that? Because fair warning, if you don't, I will."

Brienne grabs her own fork and she halts the attempted incursion with a sharp hit of metal to metal, as they smile at one another. To her, it feels like something more than a fight over her slice of cheesecake might be born here, but she shoves the thought aside to concentrate on the more immediate matter at hand, pressing upwards.

And at that, it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
